Part 15 (1/2)
14.
LA PALOMA.
Spade, coming around the corner from the elevator at a few minutes past six in the morning, saw yellow light glowing through the frosted gla.s.s of his office-door. He halted abruptly, set his lips together, looked up and down the corridor, and advanced to the door with swift quiet strides.
He put his hand on the k.n.o.b and turned it with care that permitted neither rattle nor click. He turned the k.n.o.b until it would turn no farther: the door was locked. Holding the k.n.o.b still, he changed hands, taking it now in his left hand. With his right hand he brought his keys out of his pocket, carefully, so they could not jingle against one another. He separated the office-key from the others and, smothering the others together in his palm, inserted the office-key in the lock. The insertion was soundless. He balanced himself on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, filled his lungs, clicked the door open, and went in.
Effie Perine sat sleeping with her head on her forearms, her forearms on her desk. She wore her coat and had one of Spades overcoats wrapped cape-fas.h.i.+on around her.
Spade blew his breath out in a m.u.f.fled laugh, shut the door behind him, and crossed to the inner door. The inner office was empty. He went over to the girl and put a hand on her shoulder.
She stirred, raised her head drowsily, and her eyelids fluttered. Suddenly she sat up straight, opening her eyes wide. She saw Spade, smiled, leaned back in her chair, and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. ”So you finally got back?” she said. ”What time is it?”
”Six o'clock. What are you doing here?”
She s.h.i.+vered, drew Spade's overcoat closer around her, and yawned. ”You told me to stay till you got back or phoned.”
”Oh, you're the sister of the boy who stood on the burning deck?”
”I wasn't going to-” She broke off and stood up, letting his coat slide down on the chair behind her. She looked with dark excited eyes at his temple under the brim of his hat and exclaimed: ”Oh, your head! What happened?”
His right temple was dark and swollen.
”I don't know whether I fell or was slugged. I don't think it amounts to much, but it hurts like h.e.l.l.” He barely touched it with his fingers, flinched, turned his grimace into a grim smile, and explained: ”I went visiting, was fed knockout-drops, and came to twelve hours later all spread out on a man's floor.”
She reached up and removed his hat from his head. ”It's terrible,” she said. ”You'll have to get a doctor. You can't walk around with a head like that.”
”It's not as bad as it looks, except for the headache, and that might be mostly from the drops.” He went to the cabinet in the corner of the office and ran cold water on a handkerchief. ”Anything turn up after I left?”
”Did you find Miss O'Shaughnessy, Sam?”
”Not yet. Anything turn up after I left?”
”The District Attorney's office phoned. He wants to see you.”
”Himself?”
”Yes, that's the way I understood it. And a boy came in with a message-that Mr. Gutman would be delighted to talk to you before five-thirty.”
Spade turned off the water, squeezed the handkerchief, and came away from the cabinet holding the handkerchief to his temple. ”I got that,” he said. ”I met the boy downstairs, and talking to Mr. Gutman got me this.”
”Is that the G. who phoned, Sam?”
”Yes.”
”And what-?”
Spade stared through the girl and spoke as if using speech to arrange his thoughts: ”He wants something he thinks I can get. I persuaded him I could keep him from getting it if he didn't make the deal with me before five-thirty. Then-uh-huh-sure-it was after I'd told him he'd have to wait a couple of days that he fed me the junk. It's not likely he thought I'd die. He'd know I'd be up and around in ten or twelve hours. So maybe the answer's that he figured he could get it without my help in that time if I was fixed so I couldn't b.u.t.t in.” He scowled. ”I hope to Christ he was wrong.” His stare became less distant. ”You didn't get any word from the O'Shaughnessy?”
The girl shook her head no and asked: ”Has this got anything to do with her?”
”Something.”
”This thing he wants belongs to her?”
”Or to the King of Spain. Sweetheart, you've got an uncle who teaches history or something over at the University?”
”A cousin. Why?”
”If we brightened his life with an alleged historical secret four centuries old could we trust him to keep it dark awhile?”
”Oh, yes, he's good people.”
”Fine. Get your pencil and book.”
She got them and sat in her chair. Spade ran more cold water on his handkerchief and, holding it to his temple, stood in front of her and dictated the story of the falcon as he had heard it from Gutman, from Charles V's grant to the Hospitallers up to-but no further than-the enameled bird's arrival in Paris at the time of the Carlist influx. He stumbled over the names of authors and their works that Gutman had mentioned, but managed to achieve some sort of phonetic likeness. The rest of the history he repeated with the accuracy of a trained interviewer.
When he had finished the girl shut her notebook and raised a flushed smiling face to him. ”Oh, isn't this thrilling?” she said. ”It's-”
”Yes, or ridiculous. Now will you take it over and read it to your cousin and ask him what he thinks of it? Has he ever run across anything that might have some connection with it? Is it probable? Is it possible-even barely possible? Or is it the bunk? If he wants more time to look it up, O K, but get some sort of opinion out of him now. And for G.o.d's sake make him keep it under his hat.”
”I'll go right now,” she said, ”and you go see a doctor about that head.”
”We'll have breakfast first.”
”No, I'll eat over in Berkeley. I can't wait to hear what Ted thinks of this.”
”Well,” Spade said, ”don't start boo-hooing if he laughs at you.”
After a leisurely breakfast at the Palace, during which he read both morning papers, Spade went home, shaved, bathed, rubbed ice on his bruised temple, and put on fresh clothes.
He went to Brigid O'Shaughnessy's apartment at the Coronet. n.o.body was in the apartment. Nothing had been changed in it since his last visit.
He went to the Alexandria Hotel. Gutman was not in. None of the other occupants of Gutman's suite was in. Spade learned that these other occupants were the fat man's secretary, Wilmer Cook, and his daughter Rhea, a brown-eyed fair-haired smallish girl of seventeen whom the hotel-staff said was beautiful. Spade was told that the Gutman party had arrived at the hotel, from New York, ten days before, and had not checked out.
Spade went to the Belvedere and found the hotel-detective eating in the hotel-cafe.
”Morning, Sam. Set down and bite an egg.” The hotel-detective stared at Spade's temple. ”By G.o.d, somebody maced you plenty!”
”Thanks, I've had mine,” Spade said as he sat down, and then, referring to his temple: ”It looks worse than it is. How's my Cairo's conduct?”
”He went out not more than half an hour behind you yesterday and I ain't seen him since. He didn't sleep here again last night.”
”He's getting bad habits.”
”Well, a fellow like that alone in a big city. Who put the slug to you, Sam?”