Joe Gores - Spade & Archer

“To his widow, like the will says,” said Spade.

“I don’t know how you learned of the first will, but that will was superseded by one dated just a week before Mr. Eberhard’s death.”

From his briefcase Spade brought out a sheaf of papers like a magician bringing a rabbit out of a top hat and tossed them on the table. Wise sat down, looking numb. Spaulding was still standing, looking indignant.

“Here’s the original,” Spade said. “And the forged one you’ve been planning to palm off on everyone as genuine.”

“That’s impossible!” Spaulding was feverishly unlocking desk drawers. “You — you burgled this office! The police—”

“Mrs. Eberhard, was I acting with your permission when I secured these documents for safekeeping?”

“Certainly,” said Evelyn Eberhard.

“How big a piece of the pie did St. James offer you to help steal the bank away from her, Spaulding?” asked Spade.

“That is a libelous canard that—”

“Not that it matters. Within the hour St. James will be arrested for committing five murders, and you will be arrested as accessory before and after the fact of one of them.”

“Fi— five murders?” Spaulding’s face had turned ashen. He sank back down in the swivel chair.

“Get out from behind my desk!” snapped Evelyn Eberhard.

Spade laughed aloud. “Never get between a widow and her husband’s money.”

She shot Spade an angry look, then had to chuckle herself. Numbly, Spaulding obeyed her. Evelyn sat down in his place. There was ownership in her movements.

“Five murders,” repeated Spade. “Eberhard and four men in Sausalito four years ago. There’s no statute of limitations on homicide.” He cocked a heel on the desktop, looked at Spaulding. “You might have a chance to get out from under the murder-accessory rap for a lesser charge of embezzlement if you turn up St. James for us — right now. Otherwise Mrs. Eberhard will bring civil suit against you for... what, Sid?”

“Fiduciary mismanagement for a start.” Wise warmed to his task. “There are some interesting statutes that—”

“Eleven fifty-five Leavenworth,” said Spaulding very quickly. “Third floor, rear corner apartment. He... he’s waiting for my call about finalizing the money transfers.”

“Damn!” Spade was at the desk, snatching up the phone. To central he snapped, “Connect me to the Homicide Detail in the Hall of Justice. Quick.” His hand over the receiver, he said to Evelyn, “Your husband’s love nest...”

He removed his hand.

“Tom? Get over to eleven fifty-five Leavenworth, right now... Yeah, that’s right, up behind Grace Cathedral. Go in quiet but go in quick. The murderer of Collin Eberhard is in the third-floor rear corner apartment, waiting for a telephone call... Yeah, I’m sure. Bird calling himself Devlin St. James... That’s right... St. James. Also, under the name St. Clair McPhee he’s good for that slaughter over in Sausalito four years ago. Surround the place before you go in or he’ll give you the slip. Don’t let Dundy hog all the glory.”

His left thumb depressed the receiver hook for a long moment, released it. He gave central a number. When he heard Effie Perine’s voice, he brought the phone closer to his mouth. There was elation in his voice.

“You have Penny with you there at your mother’s?” He nodded. “Good. It’s all over, sweetheart. I’ll get out there eventually.”

Tom Polhaus was leaning against a side wall with his arms folded on his chest and an embarrassed look on his face. Dundy was holding a lace window curtain aside to contemplate the looming bulk of Grace Cathedral in the next block. Phels, heavy bodied with a deeply lined grayish face, was sitting in a velour-upholstered davenport chair, hands hanging down between spread thighs, staring at the floor.

Sam Spade was striding up and down the room. His face was red and the veins at the sides of his thick throat were swelling dangerously as he raged at the three Homicide detectives.

“What do you mean you missed him?”

“He wasn’t here, Sam,” said Tom with chagrin in his voice. “His clothes and everything was still here, but he wasn’t.”

“Did you come in like I said? Quick but quiet?”

Dundy said, “How we come in don’t matter. He was tipped.”

“Who was going to tip him, Dundy?”

“Spaulding.”

“Spaulding didn’t tip anyone. Sid Wise is sitting on his chest right now waiting for someone to come take him away.”

A detective with his hat on, known to Spade only as Mack, burst open the splintered front door.

“Lieutenant, the fire escape is right beside the bathroom window of the first-floor rear apartment, and it rattles like crazy, anybody uses it. Before the tenant went out for lunch, he heard us runnin’ up the stairs yellin’ we was the police, then heard someone comin’ down the fire escape, fast. Uh... it was him, Lieutenant. St. James. He took off down the alley afoot.”

“How you went in don’t matter?” demanded Spade bitterly.

“How was we to know it wasn’t you sendin’ us on another of your wild-goose chases, Spade? You should of come to us sooner.”

Spade’s grimace deepened the V’s of his face.

“I hope to God you’ve got men in the bus and train and ferry terminals, got ’em checking hired cars, got ’em—”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to all that. But—”

“Get to all that?”

Dundy’s voice was defensive. “All I’ve got even now is your phone call to Tom. I ain’t talked to Spaulding yet. I ain’t seen nothing like proof of anything. I ain’t seen the two wills. I don’t even know why this St. James was livin’ here.”

Spade took another frustrated turn around the room.

“Eberhard was keeping his mistress in this apartment. With the lease paid up, what safer place for St. James to hole up? With her story and Spaulding’s story you’ll have enough to—”

“How much can we trust some cheap tart who was just in it for the money? Maybe she was even in cahoots with St. James.”

Spade started across the room toward him, white-faced. Big Tom Polhaus got in his way, arms wide. He spoke in a low voice.

“Where’s the girl, Sam?”

The tension went out of Spade. “I’ve got her stashed.”

“Gimme her name so we can check her out,” said Dundy.

“I keep telling you, this St. James is deadly. Go out and find her yourself. I’m not stopping you.”

Spade parked his hire car at the curb in front of a two-story brick building in the 300 block of the Richmond District’s Ninth Avenue. On the small square stoop a glazed Greek pot held a wide-spreading ficus plant. A riot of daisies crowded the living room windowsill planter. He rang the doorbell.

The door was opened by a dark-haired handsome woman in her early forties. Her face broke into a smile when she saw Spade. He bowed slightly to her. “Mrs. Perine.”

“I’m so glad this terrible thing is finally over,” she said. “Effie’s in the front room. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

As she went down the hall to the kitchen Spade entered the living room. Effie Perine stood up from a low-slung Coxwell chair in one corner. She echoed what her mother had said.

“I’m so glad it’s all over, Sam. So is Penny.”

Spade stopped in the middle of the bright, cheery room. An Oriental carpet was on the gleaming hardwood floor. Framed photos crowded the foot-square taboret under the front window; its lower shelf was crammed with books. Gold-threaded tassels hung from the armrests of the upholstered Chesterfield.

“It isn’t quite over,” said Spade uneasily. “Not yet. But Penny’s safe enough here.”