40
Buried Treasure?
Spade went back across the bridge and walked on the grassy verge of the road. There was no moon. Light came from Boothe’s cabin through lowered shades. Spade’s skeleton key silently opened the back door. On his way through the kitchen he picked up two water glasses from the sideboard.
Boothe was lying fully clothed on the daybed, his stiff leg stretched out straight. He was reading a newspaper by the light of the floor lamp.
Spade said cheerily, “Young Spade, bearing booze.”
He set down the glasses on the table, set a bottle of whiskey beside them. Boothe struggled to a sitting position.
“I–I don’t drink,” he faltered, his eyes on the bottle.
“Sure you don’t.” Spade sat, poured whiskey into the glasses. Boothe maneuvered himself into a chair.
Spade pushed a glass toward him. “I need the whole story. “About the money. About Fritz Lea. About Sun Yat-sen.”
They drank, Boothe greedily. Light came immediately into his eyes. He sighed, smacked his lips.
“I’ve spent a lot of years trying to drown the memories of our lost treasure.”
“We’ve got all night.”
“It didn’t take all night, but it took the bottle and the best part of four hours to get his story. He’s a foxy old gent.”
It was 8 in the morning. Spade was in his swivel chair, Effie Perine was in the armchair across from him. He tossed papers and tobacco pouch on the desk, leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head while she made him a cigarette.
“He finally admitted that, yes, money was raised and, yes, it was indeed a quarter of a million.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I think I do,” he said softly. “A quarter million was nowhere near enough to fund Sun Yat-sen’s revolution, so they didn’t tell him about it. They just banked it for themselves.”
“Mai-lin was so sure it wasn’t in any bank.”
“In a way she’s right. In nineteen twelve, before he went to London, Lea pulled the money from the bank and buried it. Literally. He didn’t trust Boothe to leave it alone until he got back. He wouldn’t say where he’d hidden it.”
“I guess he never did get back,” she mused softly.
“Maybe before nineteen fourteen, when he went to jail. Anyway, Boothe says he never saw him again, never knew where he hid the money.”
The sound of the hall door opening brought Effie Perine to her feet. Spade said, “Of course everything Boothe told me last night might be a pack of lies.”
Spade was stubbing out his cigarette when she returned.
“There’s a man says his name is Magnus Lindholm and he wants to consult with you. He’s a giant.”
“A giant? Send him in, darling.”
She opened the door and stood in the opening with her hand still on the knob. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Lindholm?”
Lindholm was indeed a giant, seven feet tall, with a massive square head and dark, quick eyes. He wore a dark brown woolen worsted suit and was removing a sand-colored Bond Street hat with one ham-size hand as he came in.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lindholm?”
Lindholm filled the oaken armchair beside the desk. The upper half of his heavy face was ruddy and jovial, the lower half set, almost concrete colored, the mouth a hard line.
“I have been in your beautiful city for a week, Mr. Spade, seeking word of some... associates, yes, that is the word, associates of mine in a, shall we say, venture, whom I believe planned to come here from...” He looked keenly at Spade. “I have heard that you are a man who is unusually well-informed about what goes on in San Francisco.”
Spade opened his hands in a deprecating manner, saying nothing quite forcefully. Lindholm nodded as if he had spoken.
“I have found no trace of my associates.”
Spade’s face became gravely attentive. His voice was husky. “And you wish to hire me to... what? Find them?”
“Perhaps that. Or perhaps a man like yourself has already been approached by them on this matter?”
His voice made it a question. Spade smiled reprovingly. The telephone rang once before it was picked up by Effie Perine in the outer office. Neither man paid any attention to it.
“There’s nothing in your idea that I might already have run across them.” Spade drew a pad toward himself, picked up a pencil. “But if they’re here, I can find them.”
Lindholm pushed himself upright, using his hands on the arms of the chair as well as his legs. He took out a wallet with cyrillic letters embossed in the leather and laid three twenty-dollar bills on the desktop. He gave a slight bow.
“As a consultation fee. I will be in touch.”
The huge man turned and left the office. Spade followed him out to the reception room and Effie Perine.
“He left without a word. Should I open a file on him?”
“He’s involved in some shady enterprise with some other shady characters who plan to cut him out of things. Or maybe the enterprise is theirs alone. He thought I might have run across them. When he realized I hadn’t he decided he’d said too much. Did you notice anything else odd about him, apart from his size?”
“The skin color of the upper and lower halves of his face didn’t match.”
“Yeah, ruddy above, almost gray below. Recent razor nicks from shaving off a thick beard to make it difficult for anyone who knew him to identify him. No, no file on him. His name isn’t Lindholm and he’s no Swede and he won’t be back.” Spade pointed at the phone. “Anything important?”
“Miles is on his way in.”
Miles Archer stood at the corner of Spade’s desk, hands in the pockets of his brown woolen pants, teetering slightly on his heels, a dissatisfied look on his face. Finally he went over to his own desk and sat down facing Spade.
“Well, you called that one right, Sam.”
“What do you mean, Miles?” Spade was too busy rolling a cigarette to look up. Archer took out his own pack.
“I did damn good work on that Green Street warehouse, and what did it get me? No publicity. Nothing in the newspapers. And then when I went to make my final report to Stan Hagar at the Longshoremen’s Association, he just said the matter was closed.”
“You’re going to get your bonus, aren’t you?”
Miles started slightly at mention of the bonus. When Spade said nothing more about it he added quickly, obliquely, “Well, yeah, but with the publicity we’d get—”
“So what are you bellyaching about?” Both men lit up. “I told you the Industrial Association wanted two things: the looting on the docks stopped. We stopped it — you stopped it. And they wanted it kept under wraps. It is. Dead and buried. Between you and me, Miles, it was a setup from the beginning.”
Archer looked suddenly uneasy. “A setup?”
“Stan Hagar set up raids on the Industrial Association’s warehouses so Harry Brisbane would get blamed for them. Spade and Archer was hired as window dressing. But the big boys downtown got wind of the scheme and put a stop to it. Right now we’re sitting pretty. We did what we were hired to do. We’ll get our money, and in a month or two Hagar will be gone.” He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. “Along with anyone they find out was playing his games along with him.”
Miles Archer went silent again.
“Meanwhile, I need to get a line on Mai-lin Choi’s ‘spiritual adviser,’ calls himself Reverend Sabbath Zhu Pomeroy.”
“Half-breed, with a name like that?”
“Probably,” said Spade with apparent indifference. “Zhu is in his thirties, five eight, one hundred forty, thin face, sleepy-looking dark eyes just slightly slanted, heavy eyeglasses with black horn-rims. Shiny black hair. Formerly assigned to some Methodist Chinese church in the Valley.” Again a thoughtful pause. “After all that night work I thought you might want to get out of town, into the country for a couple — three days, make a round of the Valley towns, see what you can dig up on him.”