“Yeah, good idea.” Archer’s eyes lit up. “Expenses?”
“Within reason.”
Archer was energized. He ground out his cigarette, stood.
“You’ll see me back here Friday with the goods.”
“That’s swell, Miles. I knew I could count on you.”
Spade remained behind his desk after Archer’s departure, his lip slightly curled. Then he went through the reception area and on out, telling Effie Perine as he passed by her desk that he was going to St. John’s Methodist Church in Chinatown.
41
I’ve Got a Business to Run
Henny Barber had Mai-lin Choi out on the dance floor in the crowded New Shanghai Café on Grant Avenue, whirling her around and around to the music of the live band. He was dressed in a custom-tailored suit, she in a silk party dress. Spade, seated alone at their table, noted with a wry grin that Henny was the better dancer of the two. The number ended; they returned flushed and laughing. Henny leaned across the table to Spade.
“So Boothe says he doesn’t know where Lea hid the money.”
“Yeah, if you believe him.” Spade looked at Mai-lin. “What does Reverend Zhu think about it all, Miss Choi?”
“He feels if there was any money, it will never be found.”
“We’re not going to give up so easily,” declaimed Henny.
The fog was in, haloing the streetlights, dulling the night sounds of the city. Spade got off a streetcar at California and Locust on the edge of Laurel Heights, walked up a slanting half block to a narrow row house. Vague light showed through the lowered shades of the front room windows.
Spade stood looking moodily at the house, then climbed the three steps to the stoop. He rang the bell. The door opened, Iva Archer’s backlit face peered out at him. Her soft red lips parted in a smile.
“Come in, quickly, Sam. The neighbors.”
She drew him inside, raised her face hungrily for his kiss. She wore a rose-colored crepe de chine negligee open enough to show a silk chemise cut low in the bodice to emphasize her bosom.
Spade took off topcoat and hat, tossed them on the couch.
“I could use a drink.”
“There’s one waiting — in the bedroom.” She led him toward the rear of the house, talking rapidly, breathlessly. “You were so clever to dream up some meaningless out-of-town investigation to keep Miles away for two days and nights!”
They went into the bedroom; she shut the door behind them. Candles glowed on the dresser and on the bedside table.
She turned to him, already opening her negligee.
Spade had his chair turned toward the window so he could smoke a cigarette while gazing across the narrow court beside the Hunter-Dulin building. The door was flung open and Dundy came in wearing a black overcoat, his black derby jammed down tight on his head. Tom Polhaus came in behind him, half a head taller than his superior, filling the doorway.
Spade lounged back in his swivel chair. “Why don’t you act like a gentleman, Dundy, and take off your hat?”
“We won’t be here that long, Spade.” Dundy’s eyes were alight. “You’re coming with us over to Marin County.”
“The last time you hauled me across the bay it all came to naught for you.”
Dundy crowded up to the desk. Tom followed, slower, shaking his head as he usually did at these encounters.
“There’s been a death at the Emporium Country Club over in Fairfax. Their accountant, a fellow named Charles Boothe. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know him, because—”
“I knew him.”
“Get your hat. You’re coming with us.”
Spade winked at Tom Polhaus. “Why don’t you tell your boyfriend he needs a warrant to take me anywhere.”
“Aw, c’mon, Sam, we’re just—”
“When and how did Boothe die?”
“Sometime last night,” said Polhaus. “The housekeeper at the administration building, a Mrs. Hendrix, looked through his window and saw him lying on the floor and called the Fairfax town cop. He called us and asked us to bring you over there.”
“That’s when. How?”
“Someone was roughing him up and his heart gave out.”
Dundy snapped, “The town cop, Andy Peri, dug up a Slick Hansen who sold you a bottle of bootleg night before last, and Mrs. Hendrix said that on that same night you’d been drinking with Boothe. I can get a material-witness warrant—”
But Spade had come out from behind the desk.
“See how easy it is when you ask nice, Lieutenant?”
They were waiting on the front veranda of the Emporium Country Club when the Fairfax policeman, Andrew Peri, arrived on a motorcycle. He was in uniform, complete with a badge and a Sam Browne belt across his chest, his pant legs protected by shiny leggings. He had a square face with a stern mouth and a cop’s eyes under his uniform cap. He took Spade to a table away from the others.
“I figured I had to talk with you, Mr. Spade. You’re the only stranger who spoke with Boothe recently that anyone here knows about, and you were with him night before last.”
“You don’t have to handle this bird with kid gloves,” said Dundy, hustling over to their table. “If he cracks wise, I’ll take over and get what we need out of him.”
“Thanks for getting Mr. Spade here, Lieutenant, but I think I can handle it.” To Spade he said, “I talked with the sheriff before you folks got here, and he told me you’d helped him out on a couple of cases and let him get the credit. I got no reason to think you came back again last night, but I gotta ask.”
“Sure you do. I was dining and dancing with a client and his lady friend at the New Shanghai Café in Chinatown.”
“That seems straight enough. Give me their names, then let’s go over and view the body and the crime scene.”
A dozen residents of the country club were milling around outside Boothe’s cabin. On the veranda the pleasant-faced Mrs. Hendrix, pale and all but wringing her hands, was obviously glad to be relieved of her watchdog duty.
Inside, there was an unpleasant scorched smell on the air. One of the chairs was overturned by the table, with a big serving spoon beside it. The body of Charles Boothe was sprawled near the bed. He was shoeless, with a sock on his right foot. His left arm was outstretched above his head, pointing toward the bookshelf. Half a dozen books had been pulled out and were scattered about on the floor.
“Looks like he was attacked over near the table,” rumbled Tom Polhaus. “After the attacker left he must of come around enough to crawl to the bookshelf to try and get to his feet.”
“Not on that foot,” said Spade.
“Good God in heaven!” cried Mrs. Hendrix, who had ventured in through the front door.
The bottom of Boothe’s bare left foot was blackened and blistered around ovals of angry red raw flesh. Dundy went down on one knee to get at a book wedged under the body. He turned the book upside down, open, and shook it vigorously. No papers fell out. He snorted with laughter as he tossed it on the bed.
“Hell, just a kid’s adventure story. Treasure Island.”
Tom Polhaus also leafed quickly through it, as if looking for handwritten notations in the margins, then dropped it on the bed. From outside came the sound of an approaching vehicle. A long shiny black Buick sedan with side curtains pulled up.
“Coroner’s here,” said Peri. “Guess you all better clear out so him and me can get on with our official duties.”