Joe Gores - Spade & Archer

“It’s been what, Charles? A bit over four years?”

“Goddamn your insolence, Spade!”

Spade leaned forward, took a cigar from the box on Barber’s desk, sniffed it, took out his penknife, cut off the end, and lit it with the fancy lighter on the desk.

“Insolence? I don’t work for you. I don’t work for your bank. I don’t work for the Banking Commission.”

Barber slowly sat back down, still outraged. “One phone call to City Hall and you don’t work for anybody, Spade.”

“If it comforts you to think so.” Spade leaned back, blew luxurious smoke into the air. “But I’m the boy who kept your son out of trouble and your family name out of the newspapers.”

“That was four years ago. I don’t owe you a thing now.”

“Tell your wife that.”

“Leave Rose out of this! She has nothing to do with it.”

“If it comforts you to think so.” Spade made as if to rise. “Just leave me out of it too, Barber.”

“Sit down, damn it, man.” The banker’s voice had taken on a querulous note. “I’m under a lot of pressure on this. You running all over town asking questions, alienating people, upsetting people—”

“Somebody has to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Eberhard’s death. Who else is doing anything about it?”

Barber was getting hot again.

“I resent your implication, sir! Collin Eberhard was a great good friend of mine, and poor Evelyn is a dear friend of my Rose. If there was something irregular about his death I would be the first one urging a full investigation. The very first. But that is not the case. The coroner’s jury returned a verdict of death by strictly natural causes.”

Spade puffed his cigar. “You mean that a roomful of Eberhard’s cronies returned a finding of death by natural causes so his widow would get that big insurance payout.”

“Collin had an eye for the ladies and led Evelyn a pretty dance over the years with his string of mistresses. It’s only right she should be... comfortable now.”

“Who was the most recent one?” Spade asked it idly.

“A gentleman doesn’t inquire into such things.”

“Was Eberhard ruined financially?”

“Not Collin! He was addicted to gold speculation, but—”

“Gold specie, like the San Anselmo’s missing gold coins?”

“Of course not. And don’t tell me you’re still looking for the San Anselmo gold four years later.”

“I’m still looking for the man who stole it.”

Barber chuckled. “Well, it wasn’t Collin. He speculated in gold-mining stocks, and he was shrewd, no man shrewder.”

“If he was ruined, somebody was shrewder.”

“Damnable lies by the tabloids.” Barber made a sweeping gesture. “You aren’t stirring up this mud for the newspapers, are you, Spade? No one else could have any reason to hire you.”

“So all of this bellowing and blustering is to find out who I’m working for? You should have just asked.” Spade knocked ash off his cigar. “Until two hours ago, Ray Kentzler at Bankers’ Life. Now, nobody. Jovanen canned me.”

“But— but—” Barber was almost stuttering. “Jovanen was asking the commission if we had hired you.”

“Jovanen didn’t know. Kentzler hired me under the table to find out if there was something fishy about Eberhard’s death.”

Barber leaned back, hands laced across his middle, and said in a relieved voice, “Then that’s the end of it.”

“Nope. The cops have closed the file on Eberhard’s death and someone with a lot of influence is trying to keep it closed. When I started asking questions everyone was suddenly shy, or had amnesia, or was hostile. The coroner says natural causes, hands me off to his troubleshooter. The insurance company finds out I’m working for them and fires me. California-Citizens throws me out on my ear. Now you tell me the Banking Commission wants me to desist. And the Neptune Bath House won’t even tell me which of Eberhard’s pals were with him on the day he died.”

“I was, for one,” said Barber unexpectedly. “Collin looked glum when he arrived, but not suicidal. And after he talked with some chap off in the corner he looked like his horse had come in at Tanforan. Got out his bottle, insisted we all have a drink with him.” He shook his head. “No. No suicide there.”

“Poison in his drink?”

“Hell, man, we all drank from the same bottle. We’d have all gone down. Do you have a single fact that says it was not from natural causes?”

“Yeah, two. First, the man who was huddled off in the corner with Eberhard. He drank with you, easy to drop something into Eberhard’s glass. I bet you don’t even know his name.”

Barber was frowning, enmity forgotten.

“Now I think of it, it’s strange Collin didn’t introduce him.”

“A week before Eberhard died this guy was at the house. In the study. Evelyn Eberhard heard raised voices but no words. I think he was in business with Eberhard.”

Barber shook his head contemptuously. “That gigolo?”

“Second, Cal-Cit won’t open Eberhard’s financial records.”

“Damn it, man, the tabloids—”

“—will be yelling about some other crisis in the body politic in another week.”

Barber shook his head. “Bankers are notoriously conservative, Spade, and adverse publicity is bad for business.”

“Why not at least open the books for the cops? They’re good at keeping secrets for the power people in this town.”

“Since there is no active investigation of Collin’s death, the police couldn’t get a judge to issue a warrant.”

“What about your precious Banking Commission?”

“Like the D.A., we have no probable cause for such a demand. California-Citizens Bank is solvent. And powerful.”

“Why refuse his widow access to her husband’s accounts? She’s his heir after all.” Spade paused, a suddenly speculative look on his face. “She is his heir, isn’t she?”

“Of course she’s his heir. Who else could it be? The will hasn’t been made public, but I’m sure Evelyn... Hmph. Damned odd Evelyn hasn’t mentioned it to Rose, now you say it. She could initiate legal action to become administratrix of Collin’s affairs, but it would be messy... damned messy.”

“I spoke with her about that. She doesn’t want to do it.”

Barber looked relieved again.

“Tell you what, Spade. I’ll drop by California-Citizens informally, have a chat with Vice President Spaulding. Banker to banker, learn what I can. He’s acting president for the moment. Evelyn at least should be able to see those records.”

As Spade emerged into Montgomery Street, a low voice called urgently behind him.

“Mr. Spade.”

It was Henny Barber, no longer the gangly kid Spade had hauled out of the San Anselmo’s lifeboat four years before. Now a sturdy youth of twenty-one, conservatively dressed. He grabbed Spade’s hand and wrung it with a ferocious fervor.

“I heard you’d been summoned by Pater for a dressing-down.” He drew Spade almost furtively up the street. “I’m dying of boredom and I’m hoping there is something, anything, I can do to help you in your investigation of Mr. Eberhard’s death.”

“Aren’t you already working at Golden Gate Trust?”

“Not a real position. Just looking over shoulders.”

“You knew the Eberhards, didn’t you?”

“He was an unofficial uncle when I was growing up. I liked him.” Henny grinned. “I like Aunt Ev a lot better.”

“OK,” said Spade. “You want to help, go get a tellertrainee job at California-Citizens Bank. Tell your old man you want to try it there — but don’t tell him it came from me.”