Joe Gores - Spade & Archer

His face lit up. “Undercover? At Uncle Collin’s bank?”

“Just for a few days. When can you be in place?”

“Tomorrow. Banks always need tellers.”

“Don’t be disappointed if nothing happens,” said Spade.

Effie Perine, watering the vase of African violets she kept on her desk, answered Spade’s inevitable “Any calls?” with “Three, nothing important. But a beautiful Chinese girl was in.”

His eyes quickened. “Chinese? They usually go to their own people for help. She want an appointment? Leave a name?”

“No appointment. She said her name was Mai-lin Choi and that she is here on a student permit that’s running out. She has to go back — to China, I guess — but said she’d return.”

“That sounds straight enough. The Chinese Exclusion Act bars all Chinese except teachers and students and diplomats and the clergy from entering the country from China. I doubt we’ll hear from her again.”

He made a beckoning gesture, went into his private office.

“How was your lunch with Penny?”

Effie Perine didn’t meet his eyes. “I had a sandwich at my desk. She had to get to work.”

“That’s it? Open up. It’s like pulling teeth.”

“She is playing some game, isn’t she?” Her face was troubled. “She told me the same things she told you and said she’ll come in tomorrow morning again to find out if you learn anything tonight. She promised no more games.”

“Still a believer?”

“She’s honestly scared, Sam.” She made a visible effort to change topics. “How did it go with Barber?”

“That fire’s out.” He smiled without mirth. “He’s going to talk to Cal-Cit Bank tomorrow. Did you get the merry widow?”

“The housekeeper said she was out.”

“Keep trying.”

Effie Perine returned to the outer office. Spade smoked cigarettes, various expressions passing across his face. He finally left, stopping at Effie Perine’s desk to tell her he’d make sure that no terrible Turks were following Penny that night.

Spade was in a coffee shop across Montgomery when Penny Chiotras emerged from the Russ Building’s ornate front entrance at 5:07 p.m. She went down to Bush, turned toward Grant Avenue and the Gypsy Tea Shop. No one followed her, not even Spade. He left a dime on the counter, dodged quitting-time traffic to the Russ Building to consult the directory beside the elevator bank.

“Six, please.”

Spade left the elevator, went down the sixth-floor hall to a lighted pebbled-glass door that read HARTFORD & COLE in blocky capitals, with STOCKS AND BONDS below in smaller cursive writing.

A tall sharp-featured dark-haired man already wearing his hat was coming from an inner office, pulling on a tweed topcoat.

“I was hoping to catch one of your employees before she left,” said Spade. “Penny Chiotras.”

“Sorry, chap, you’re a month too late.” He belatedly stuck out his hand. “Desmond Cole, junior partner of the firm.”

Spade shook. “Eric Gough.”

“Like the street?”

“He was a great-uncle.”

“Native son? A rarity. Anyway, Penny’s mother died, she had to relocate to Brentwood over in the East Bay to look after her aging father. We hated to lose her. Penny was a whiz.”

“My secretary quit, and I remembered Collin Eberhard some time ago was raving about how competent Miss Chiotras was.” Spade smiled ruefully. “I was hoping to steal her from you.”

“Penny started out as a secretary right enough, but she soon became a de facto broker, near as damn to swearing. We were urging her to get her own license when she had to leave. We specialize in timber and mineral stocks — copper, tin, silver, and gold, and she had the touch. She handled some of Collin’s speculative gold-mining stocks and his bank prospered mightily because of her during the past four years—” He broke off, looking guilty. “I shouldn’t be telling you all of this, but I guess it doesn’t matter now that Eberhard is dead and Penny has moved on.”

Spade walked brisky over to Grant Avenue to take up his position in the same convenient doorway across from the Gypsy Tea Shop. Penny was there, went through the same routine, except this time she actually went to the movies. Spade followed her to Noe Valley, saw her safely into her apartment, went home himself. He set his alarm for 6 a.m.

When Penny emerged from Severn Place at 8:30 the next morning Spade was loitering in a little market in Twenty-third Street. Against the morning chill Penny wore a woolen cloche hat and a worn calf-length coat over a cheap working-girl’s frock. Spade laid a nickel on the counter by the cash register.

“Use your phone?”

The gray-haired heavy-faced German shopkeeper waved a hand. “You wouldn’t believe the people use that phone, and without offering me no nickel either.”

Spade gave central his number. While he waited he picked out an apple, laid down another nickel.

Effie Perine’s voice said, “Samuel Spade Investigations.”

“Me. When Penny gets there, tell her nobody was behind her last night and that I feel she has nothing to worry about. But give her my apartment address and the phone number. If she sees anyone, she should get somewhere safe and let me know right away. Day or night.”

Her voice was low, relieved. “Thanks, Sam.” Then she added, “When I came in the phone was ringing. Charles Barber. He wants you to meet him for lunch at the Bohemian Club. I think he wants to apologize for yesterday.” Excitement entered her voice. “They say you have to spend years on the waiting list just to become a member.”

“And no women allowed, ever.”

“Not even as waitresses?” Then her voice changed, got catty. “They have women at the Bohemian Grove up on the Russian River during their two-week summer camp up there. At least lots of girls stay in Guerneville cabins that are close by.”

“What would your mother say if she heard you talking that way, sweetheart? Tell Barber I’ll be there at noon.”

Spade went down Severn Place eating his apple, turned in at the narrow row house that in the morning light proved to be a paint-peeling gray. He climbed five worn wooden steps.

There were six name tags to the right of the front door, two per floor. Apartment 3A was Drosos. Apartment 3B was Donant. No Chiotras. The front door was unlocked. He went in.

Backed up against the wall inside the door was a battered Queen Anne — style library table with mail strewn across it. Nothing for Chiotras. Nothing for Drosos. Spade dropped his apple core on top of discarded mail in a wastebasket beside the table, without stealth climbed to the third floor.

The hallway ran straight back to a communal bathroom at the far end, where the toilet, tub, and sink would be. Halfway down were facing doors, 3A to the left, 3B to the right. It was in the window of 3A that lights had gone on and the roller shade had been lowered after Penny had entered the building.

Spade laid an ear to the door of 3B, heard a radio playing “Sleepy Time Gal.” He stepped quickly across the hall, tapped on the panel of 3A while fingering his keys. No response. The third key worked. He glanced over his shoulder, slid through the half-opened door, closed it without sound.

He was in a small, narrow apartment. An easy chair with frayed arms and the fiber-and-hardwood magazine stand beside it were the only furniture in the front room. Behind it was a chest-high wooden counter topped with oilcloth enclosing a minuscule kitchen with a stained porcelain sink, a two-burner stove, and two chairs shoved under a two-by-three kitchen table.

Behind that a closed three-wing hardwood screen with a floral-patterned cretonne panel and two-way hinges partitioned off the final bit of space. Spade folded back one of the end wings. Hooks on the inside of it held a bath towel, a hand towel, a woolly robe. Inside on the floor were fuzzy slippers.