Joe Gores - Spade & Archer

“Don’t take chances, Sam. District Attorney Bryan would just love to put you into prison yourself.”

“He’s not liable to get the chance.”

Spade recounted his previous day’s work. It took longer to finish with the widow than with anything else because Effie Perine wanted to know all about what Evelyn Eberhard looked like and what she was wearing and what she said.

“A mistress? A man with no name?”

“The mistress and Mr. Nameless are two things that keep me from accepting natural causes for the death and closing out the case. A third is that the bank hired Gino after Eberhard died. The kid’s carrying a two-year felony rap. No legitimate banker should let him within a mile of the place. Fourth, the bank’s refusing to let anyone see Eberhard’s financial stuff.”

“Not even the widow?”

“Well, she’s very far from the traditional grieving widow. Six months ago she wanted to hire me to find the mistress. She gave that up, but then Eberhard went broke maybe, and then he died, maybe natural, maybe on purpose, maybe helped along. Now she wants me to find the mistress to help negate the suicide theory. Or maybe to hang any funny business about Eberhard’s death on her. I offered the widow a deal. Get me into the bank’s records, I’ll find you your mistress. But she’s too afraid of losing the insurance money to back me up.”

“Nothing about this case makes a whole lot of sense.”

“Yeah. Call Sid Wise’s office, see if he’s in.”

As she waited for central to pick up she said, “I liked it a lot better when Sid was just next door.”

Spade entered the pinkish office building on Sutter and Kearny just shy of 2 o’clock. He took the elevator up, went to suite 827, entered without knocking. In passing, he bent down to kiss Wise’s receptionist on the top of her head.

She giggled. “Mr. Wise said to go right on in, Mr. Spade.”

Sid Wise’s big desk was loaded with papers and files, but he had his swivel chair turned so he could look out at the Sutter Hotel across the street. There were the usual flecks of dandruff on the shoulders of his suit coat. He was biting a fingernail.

“One of these days you’ll draw blood,” said Spade.

Wise spun his chair around. He started a hand gesture toward the chair across from him, but Spade had already dragged it to the side of the desk. Wise frowned. He fidgeted.

“Everyone in town says you’re asking questions about the Eberhard death. That one’s zipped up and folded away, Sam.”

“Let me guess. The Neptune Bath House—”

“Doesn’t want any more bad publicity. Cal-Cit’s attorney says that you threatened a V.P. with—”

“I wanted a reaction, Sid. I got one.”

“You sure did. You also said the widow was your client.”

“Implied.”

“Then Assistant Deputy Coroner Klinger is saying—”

“They’re on record that Eberhard died of natural causes.”

“Jovanen over at Bankers’ Life wants you to stop snooping around while they decide whether to pay off the widow.”

“Doesn’t all of this make you just a little bit curious?”

“Lawyers are never paid just to get curious.”

“I am.”

“You have a client? This isn’t just Sam Spade trying to drum up business?”

“I haven’t had to do that for three years.” Spade’s smile was sardonic. “Not since you moved away from Mission Street and I started upgrading my client list. Ray Kentzler at Bankers’ Life hired me. Under the table. That’s why Jovanen doesn’t know anything about it.”

A speculative look came into the attorney’s eyes.

“So Eberhard’s death isn’t cut-and-dried after all.”

“Don’t tell anybody,” said Spade. “It’s supposed to be a secret, but the fact is they won’t open those files to anyone. Not even the widow. Questions of confidentiality, propriety, that sort of thing.” He leaned toward Wise and lowered his voice too dramatically for it to be genuine. “Want to represent her in this matter, Sid?”

Wise leaned back and looked up at the ceiling and got his faraway look in his eyes. “Yes and no. I’d love to have a widow who’s probably going to be rich for a client. But what if Evelyn Eberhard did have a hand in her husband’s death? And I get a lot of work from the Bankers Association through Charles Barber at Golden Gate Trust and I’m just waiting for that shoe to drop.” He shrugged regretfully. “So I have to pass.”

“Same thing Evelyn said when I offered her your services,” said Spade cheerily. “You two were made for each other. A pair of old maids.” His brows drew down. “I’ll get into those files my own way.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Sid Wise gloomily.

Spade and the Archers were at a front corner table for four in Julius Castle on Telegraph Hill. Far below, the ferryboats were toys moving between the Ferry Building and the Oakland and Sausalito ferry terminals. Lights glittered over the water from Berkeley and Emeryville. Above rose the round turretlike wooden structure that gave the restaurant its name. Iva Archer sighed.

“It’s very beautiful, Sam,” she said in a wistful voice.

“No prettier than Elliott Bay up at Seattle,” boomed Archer.

“Oh, Miles, hush,” she said.

“I wouldn’t argue with you,” said Spade.

They were each having the two-dollar dinner, Iva the fillet of sole with sauce Julius, Spade the tenderloin steak with zucchini Florentine, Archer the lamb chops.

Archer poured more Riesling into each of their glasses, leaned back, and patted his belly.

“You can sure pick the good places to eat, Sam.”

Spade leaned forward to light Iva’s cigarette, leaned back and drifted smoke into the air. “How’s your brother Phil?”

“Got all the work he can handle,” said Archer.

“Lawyer, isn’t he?” asked Spade.

“He wants Miles to come down here and go in with him,” said Iva. “Do all of his investigative work.”

“Or I might transfer down with Burns. Like you transferred up to Seattle with Continental before the war, Sam.”

“Well, good luck with whatever you decide,” said Spade.

“You know, seeing your office today, Sam, maybe I ought to go out on my own like you did.” He winked. “Get a pretty little girl to do all my — ah, paperwork...” He leaned forward, suddenly serious. “You ever think of taking in a partner, Sam?”

Spade shook his head. “Nope,” he said.

It was midafternoon when Spade stopped at Effie Perine’s desk to ask his standard, “Any calls?” She looked up and shook her head, then raised a detaining hand when he started toward the closed door of his inner office. He stopped abruptly, scowling.

“It’s not Miles Archer, is it? You know better than to put anyone in there when I’m not around.”

“Not Archer. A — a friend. Of mine.”

Spade dragged the other chair over to sit down.

“OK, sweetheart, out with it.”

Fingering the little jeweled gold locket she always wore, Effie Perine looked up at him, looked away almost shyly.

“Remember the day you found me mooning over this locket and I showed you how it folded open into a sort of cloverleaf—”

“With pictures of your mother and your father and their wedding day. Sure, I remember.”

“And a picture of my best friend...”

“Penny... Penny Chiotras. Penelope. She’s six years older than you, right? Like a big sister to you.” Off her surprised look, he added with a grin, “I never forget a pretty face.”

“She’s not just pretty. She’s beautiful. You’ll see.”

He frowned, gestured at the closed door to his office. “So she’s the one who—”