Joe Gores - Spade & Archer

“ ‘Lo, Tom.”

The big man behind Dundy jerked a nod. “Sam.”

He was Spade’s size but carried more weight, most of it in a hard-looking belly that stretched at the shirt buttons above his belt. His mouth was thick, hard-edged; he looked like he would always need a shave. His eyes were small and blue and shrewd, constantly shifting.

Spade clasped his hands behind his neck.

“So what are you two birds up to this morning?”

“Up to our necks in the manure you’ve been spreading around town,” snapped Dundy, crowding the desk. “Wasting our days running around in circles trying to catch up with you.”

“Well, I’m here now.” He said to Tom Polhaus, “I hear you took the four luggage-room guards down to the hall and were grilling them until all hours.”

“How did you know—”

“It’s all over the docks, Dundy,” Spade said mockingly.

“Had to let them go,” said Polhaus in an almost apologetic voice. “Nothing to show they were in on the heist.”

“I could have told you that” — said Spade. He unclasped his hands and lowered his arms and leaned his elbows on the desk. He grinned — “if you boys could have got hold of me.”

“We’ve got you now,” said Dundy with triumph in his voice. “Got you for impersonating an officer—”

“Prove it.”

“I knew you’d say that, Spade. I’m going to take you down to the San Anselmo and show you to First Officer Raf-ferty and Quartermaster Kest so they can identify you as the man who went aboard just after the robbery claiming to be—”

Spade was on his feet, his movement so abrupt that his swivel chair crashed back against the wall under the window.

“You got a warrant for my arrest?” he demanded.

The veins were swelling at the sides of his thick neck. Dundy took an involuntary step back and Tom Polhaus started forward, alarm on his face.

“Take it easy, Sam, we’re just—”

“Just busting in, making accusations without a warrant.”

He put his left hand flat on his desk and leaned forward on that arm while pointing his right forefinger at Dundy’s chest as Dundy had pointed a finger at him.

“If I impersonated anyone, it would have been a minor Port Authority official, not a cop. If you want to arrest someone, clap the nippers on Quartermaster Kest. If you can find him.”

“Straight goods, Sam?” asked Polhaus.

“Take it to the bank.” He jerked a thumb at Dundy. “And take your pal here with you when you go.”

“How do you know Kest is involved if you weren’t in on it yourself?” demanded Dundy doggedly.

“It’s called investigating, Dundy. If you think you can prove anything on me, go ahead, take me in.” He turned to Effie Perine, who was still standing back from the desk, white-faced and astounded. “Run next door, sweetheart, ask Sid Wise to come in—”

“We’re going, Spade.” Dundy’s mouth worked beneath his mustache as he turned away. “But we’ll be back.”

Polhaus paused long enough to nod to Effie Perine and shake his head at Spade in exasperation. Then he went out behind Dundy. Only after the outer door had closed behind them did Spade drag his chair up to the desk again and sit back down in it. Effie Perine, still shaken, sank into the other chair.

“Sam! A police sergeant! He’s going to—”

“He’s going to try,” said Spade. “What have you got to tell me about our missing passenger without any luggage?”

Her face fell. “Nothing. He boarded at Honolulu as you thought, slight and bearded, under the name St. Clair McPhee. Paid cash. Left the ship and just disappeared.”

“Good!” Spade’s face had brightened. “Then we can give odds forever that he’s the one behind the whole scheme.”

“But if he’s gone and the gold’s gone—”

“Some of it’s still aboard the San Anselmo. Give Tom Pol-haus time to get back to the hall, call him, ask him to meet me at the Waldorf at noon. Those three mug artists who jumped me last night knew who I was. If Tom can bird-dog them for me through police records I’ll tail ’em until they lead me to this St. Clair McPhee.”

She started to speak, but he interrupted.

“They weren’t hired by Kest. He went on the lam yesterday. They weren’t hired by my graveyard-watch seamen because they didn’t see me. So it has to be our missing passenger.”

He shrugged into his suit coat and started for the door.

“And tell Sid Wise I’ve got the kid nailed down. I don’t know where he is minute to minute, but he’s OK.”

Spade was at a corner table in the Waldorf Café in Market Street, drinking a seidel of beer and eating a ham sandwich. Tom Polhaus sat down, tipped his hat back, and sighed.

“That beer looks good. I ain’t been in here before.”

Spade swept a thick, hostlike arm around the small, dim saloon. “Buy one and the sandwiches are free.”

Polhaus lumbered to his feet, went up to the bar, returned with his own stein of dark beer and a big plateful of ham sandwiches on small hot biscuits. He started wolfing them down.

“Did Dundy really think those four seamen were in on the heist, or was he just trolling for headlines?”

Polhaus shrugged. “He tried hard enough to break ’em, that’s the truth. Took ’em downstairs for a little session.”

“Waltzing around a quartet of tough seamen who don’t know anything in the first place does a lot of good.” Spade blew out smoke. “What about the quartermaster? Kest?”

Polhaus drank beer, looked quizzically at Spade. “That on the up-and-up, Sam? You really think he’s the one planned it?”

“Planned it? No. In on it? Yes.” Malice glinted for a moment in his eyes. “Not that you’re likely to find him even if you do look. Not him or his green motorcycle with the sidecar.”

“Motorcycle with a sidecar?”

“Yeah, but here’s another one for you. What’s the story on those three guys got beat up on the Embarcadero last night?”

Polhaus stared at him with small, bright, suddenly suspicious eyes. “What happened to your face, Sam?”

“Cut myself shaving. Who are they? What’s their grift? What tale did they spin for you?”

Polhaus drank beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, his knuckles rasping the bristles on his chin. When he spoke it was slowly, thoughtfully, as if feeling his way.

“They were the ones got beat up, not the other way around.”

Spade chuckled. “By a dozen Chinese highbinders with lathers’ hatchets? Anybody want ’em for anything?”

“You sure you cut yourself shaving?”

“Out-of-towners? Local? Where are they staying?”

“No wants, Sam. They got patched up and walked away.”

“I’d get more from the newspapers,” said Spade irritably.

“Let’s talk about all the help you’re giving us.”

“I gave you Kest. What more do you want?”

“I want you to level with me about those three guys.”

Polhaus finished his sandwich, scraped his chin again, sighed. “Well, might could it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at Kest. That sidecar big enough to carry some of that missing gold?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t.”

“I wish I knew what you aren’t telling me, Sam.”

Spade put money down. “I might have something for you in a day or two. For you, Tom. Got it?”

“I got it,” said Polhaus almost glumly. Then he added unwillingly, “Those three guys, they’re Portagee fishermen out of Sausalito, maybe turned leggers. I ain’t got their names on me but we couldn’t hold ’em anyway. No wants or warrants on ’em.”

The Eureka, one of several side-wheelers that made the thirty-two-minute run to Marin County half a dozen times a day, slowed to a crawl to slide between the massive wooden pilings of the middle of Sausalito’s three ferry slips. The mooring lines were tossed out, and the gangplank was slid out and down. Spade followed the other passengers off, walked a hundred yards to a three-story pseudo-Mission-style hotel overlooking the meager downtown.