“And your father is...”
“Dead. Three years ago. In Peking. What is important is that he was with Charles Boothe and Fritz Lea here in San Francisco in nineteen ten. I must talk with these two men.”
“If they’re still around and still alive,” said Spade. “A lot can happen in eighteen years. Why do you want to find them?”
“I will tell you everything if you are successful.”
“I’m sure you will, but meanwhile let’s be perfectly clear. First, without this information I might do more harm than good, a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of thing.” Spade picked up his tobacco and papers from the blotter and began constructing a cigarette. “Second, I need to know this is a legitimate investigation. You’re not hiring me to break any laws, anything like that.”
“You have my assurances of that. And those of Reverend Zhu if needed.” She drifted up from her chair. “I am staying in a house on Old Chinatown Lane. Miss Perine has the address and phone number. Now I must go. After we discuss your fee.”
“So she really has a case.”
“Yeah, if you could call it that.” Spade hooked one hip over the front corner of Effie Perine’s desk. “Our Mai-lin is a very cool article, or pretends to be. She said she’ll tell me why she’s looking for these two guys after I find them. When I threw in some nonsense about legality, she brought up the Reverend Sabbath Zhu Pomeroy. ‘Spiritual adviser’ suggests a spiritual con game to me. Not unknown even among the organized religions.” He bowed slightly. “Except for the Greek Orthodox Church, of course. And she was very cagey about who her real father was.”
“Is that important?”
“Yeah. She let slip he was trying to raise an army. Call Charles Barber at Golden Gate Trust, ask if he’s ever heard of Boothe. Then leave a message for Mickey Linehan at Continental that I’ll be attending the services at his place tonight.”
Sam Spade was the only passenger left when the Stockton Street cable car reached the turnaround in the 500 block of Greenwich. Above the Greenwich Street stub the steep, brushy side of Telegraph Hill gleamed with moisture.
Spade went downhill off Grant on Edith Alley. In the middle of the block he went up the steps to a two-story frame building and rang the bell for the lower flat. The door was opened on a narrow hallway filled with the hulking, loose-faced Mickey Linehan. His right hand waved a half-empty glass.
“We started without you,” he said.
“I’ll catch up,” said Spade.
Male voices, light, smoke, the clink of chips, the rasp of bottle on glass, the smell of cigarettes, came from an open doorway halfway down the short hall. In the middle of a front room that overlooked Edith Alley was an oaken table littered with ashtrays, chips, bottles. Around it were five hardwood chairs.
“See whut the cat drug in!” exclaimed Mickey jovially.
Three heads turned. Two of the men were Woody Robinson and Phil Haultain. The third was a thick-bodied square-faced man with reddish close-cropped curly hair, a strong chin, a determined mouth turned down at the corners, and hard, direct eyes under slightly beetling brows. Mickey swung an arm.
“These two bums you know.” He gestured at the third man. “Rusty McCoy, our new Continental op.”
“The last I heard you were on Jack Manion’s Chinatown squad looking for pails with false bottoms full of opium.”
“Now I’m cleaning these guys at poker,” said McCoy.
“Easier than cleaning up Chinatown,” agreed Spade. “How is Jack these days?”
“Tough as ever. Still goes to Mass every morning at Old St. Mary’s Church. Still Uncle Jack to all the decent people of Chinatown. He always had good things to say about you, Sam.”
“Let’s quit jawing and play some poker,” said Mickey.
It was five-card stud, nothing wild. An hour in, Spade asked Mickey, “You ever hear of a guy named Fritz Lea?”
“Should I of?”
“His name cropped up in a case I’m on. Can you take a look through the files and let me know if Continental has a line on him? Last seen in San Francisco around nineteen ten.”
“Since you just let me bluff you out of a ten-buck pot with a measly pair of treys, sure,” said Mickey, grinning.
Another hour later Spade and McCoy were in the kitchen chipping ice for their drinks from the block in the old-fashioned zinc-lined cooler. Spade spoke casually.
“Rusty, you ever run across a pastor down in Chinatown, Methodist I think, name of Reverend Sabbath Zhu Pomeroy?”
“Of mixed blood is he, then, with a name like that?”
“I think so, but I’ve never met him.”
McCoy stood, glass in hand, looking thoughtful.
“A half-Chinese Methodist pastor...” He shook his head. “Nope. I never heard of him. Is he in trouble?”
“Not with me,” said Spade. “Again, his name came up.”
“Maybe he’s come to the big city from the Chinese community in Sacramento, or Fresno, or Salinas, or maybe Watsonville.”
“Maybe so,” agreed Spade.
The game broke up about midnight.
33
Hunting Harry
Spade and Archer met outside Marquand’s Restaurant below the Geary Theatre. Above them was a sign, CABARET AND DANCING, but at a little before noon patrons were going in only for food, not entertainment. The two detectives shook hands as if casual acquaintances, took a corner booth, where there was little chance of being overheard. Archer leaned in and talked quietly, intensely, while seeming to study his menu.
“I think I’ve got a line on the ringleader of the group, Sam. The one who paid Robbie Brix for information. They did it again last night. Again, inside. But I was at the window watching when he gave Brix some more cash. I keep snooping around, but he only ever shows up at the warehouse so I can’t point him out to anybody.”
“You try tailing him?”
“Too risky. He’s a little guy, wary as a fox.”
Their meat loaf came. They started eating.
“So he’s probably blacklisted for union activity. You think it’s lefty union guys trying to bring down the system who’re behind the pilfering, Miles?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Archer judiciously.
“They don’t seem in any hurry to move the stolen goods out of that warehouse, do they? The paymaster has an Aussie accent.”
“Aussie accent? Little guy, you said? How old?”
“Twenty-nine, thirty. Wiry. Lean face. Bloodhound eyes.”
“Good work, Miles.” Spade smiled with the lower part of his face. “Keep it up.”
“I just had lunch with Miles. Anything from anybody?”
Effie Perine followed him into his office, open notebook in hand. He sat down in his swivel chair and tossed tobacco sack and papers on his desk. She sat down, started making his cigarette, talking as she did.
“Charles Barber isn’t having any luck at all in finding Boothe, the retired banker.”
“I should have put young Henny on him. The beautiful Mai-lin Choi would appeal to his romantic nature.”
“I’d think running California-Citizens Bank for the Widow Eberhard would leave him no time for romance or derring-do.” She handed him the cigarette. “How did the services go?”
“Mickey Linehan will run Fritz Lea through the files at Continental. The game was to welcome Rusty McCoy, a new op who used to be with Jack Manion’s Chinatown squad. I went to the game to ask him if he’d ever heard of Reverend Sabbath Zhu. He hadn’t.” He paused, lighter in hand. “Rusty said maybe he’s from Watsonville or Fresno or Sacramento, but...”