Joe Gores - Spade & Archer

It was thirteen minutes short of midnight. Drizzle glinted through the wind-danced lights on the edge of the Tacoma Municipal Dock. A man a few years shy of thirty stood in a narrow aisle between two tall stacks of crated cargo, almost invisible in a black hooded rain slicker. He had a long bony jaw, a flexible mouth, a jutting chin. His nose was hooked. He was six feet tall, with broad, steeply sloping shoulders.

He stayed in the shadows while the scant dozen passengers disembarked from the wooden-hulled steam-powered passenger ferry Virginia V, just in from Seattle via the Colvos Passage. His cigarette was cupped in one palm as if to shield it from the rain, or perhaps to conceal its glowing ember from watching eyes.

The watcher stiffened when the last person off the Virginia V was a solid, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, dressed in a brown woolen suit. His red heavy-jawed face was made for joviality, but his small brown eyes were wary, constantly moving.

The passenger went quickly along the dock toward a narrow passageway that led to the city street beyond. The watcher, well behind, ambled after him. The first man had started through the passageway when he was jumped by two bulky, shadowy figures. There were grunts of effort, curses, the sound of blows, the scrape of leather soles on wet cobbles as the men struggled.

The watcher announced his arrival by jamming his lighted cigarette into the eye of one attacker. The man screamed, stumbled unevenly away holding a hand over his eye. The second attacker broke free and fled.

“‘Lo, Miles.”

Miles Archer, holding a handkerchief to his bloodied nose, said thickly through the bunched-up cloth, “Uh... thanks, Sam.”

“Wobblies?” asked Sam Spade.

“Wobblies. Who else?”

They went down the passageway toward the street. Archer was limping. He had the thick neck and slightly soft middle of an athletic man going to seed.

“They finally made you as undercover for Burns?”

“Took ’em long enough,” Archer bragged. He looked over at Spade. “Back with Continental, huh? Uh... how’d you find me?”

“Wasn’t looking. Was staked out for a redheaded paper hanger out of Victoria.”

“I saw him miss the ferry in Seattle.”

Spade nodded, put a smile on his face that did not touch his eyes. “Belated congratulations on your marriage, Miles.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks, Sam.” Something sly and delighted seemed suddenly to dance in Archer’s heavy, coarse voice. “We’re living over in Spokane so’s she can keep working at Graham’s Bookstore, even though I’m down here most of the time. Tough on the little lady, but what can she do?”

Spade was at a table set for afternoon tea when the fortyish matron entered from Spokane’s Sprague Avenue. The Davenport Hotel’s vast Spanish-patio-style lobby was elegant, with a mezzanine above and, on the ground floor, an always-burning wood fireplace. When the woman paused in the doorway he stood. His powerful, conical, almost bearlike body kept his gray woolen suit coat from fitting well.

She crossed to him. She had wide-set judging eyes and a small, disapproving mouth.

“I am Mrs. Hazel Cahill. And you are...”

He gave a slight, almost elegant bow. “Samuel Spade.”

Mrs. Cahill set her Spanish-leather handbag on one of the chairs, stripped off her kidskin gloves, and slid them through the bag’s carrying straps. Her movements were measured. She turned slightly so Spade’s thick-fingered hands could remove her coat.

She sat. She did not thank him. She said, “Three o’clock last Monday afternoon he and two other men came from this hotel, laughing about their golf scores. My husband, Theodore, and I just moved here from Tacoma a month ago, and it’s been five years, but I know what I saw.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

“Theodore does. Constantly.” Her head shake danced carefully marcelled curls under her narrow-brimmed hat. “You men always stick together.”

Spade nodded with seeming indifference.

“Theodore and he were great cronies — golf and tennis, drinks at the club. When he abandoned poor Eleanor five years ago and didn’t turn up dead Theodore called him the one who got away. Eleanor is my best friend. She never remarried.”

The skylight in the high vaulted ceiling laid a slanted bar of pale afternoon sunlight across one corner of their table. Spade’s raised brows, which peaked slightly above his yellow-gray eyes, encouraged confidences.

“Did Eleanor’s husband recognize you?”

“No. And only when they were past did I recognize him, from his voice — a distinctive tenor I’d always found irritating.” She pursed thin lips and something like malice gleamed in her eyes. “Of course I immediately called Eleanor in Tacoma to tell her I had seen her missing husband here in Spokane.”

“And she believed you. Even if your husband doesn’t.”

“My husband never believes me.”

“If the man’s here I’ll find him.”

After she had gone Spade remained, rolled and smoked three cigarettes in quick succession, muttered aloud, “What the hell?” and left the hotel.

John Graham’s Bookstore was on the corner of Sprague Avenue and West First Avenue, hard by the Davenport Hotel. Spade entered with long strides, slowed as if looking for a particular volume on the crowded shelves. There were a half dozen browsers and an almost pleasant smell of old books in the air.

Graham himself, a thin bespectacled man with a trim white mustache and wings of silver hair swept back from either side of his face, was ringing up a sale on the front register. A female clerk was selling a customer a book halfway down the store.

Spade went that way, his eyes hooded. The clerk was a blonde of about his age, pretty verging on beautiful, with an oval face, blue eyes, and a moist red mouth. Her silk-striped woolen rep dress, too fashionable for a shopgirl to wear to work, clung to an exquisite body.

The big round blue eyes lit up when she saw Spade. She hurried her sale to just short of rudeness, came up to Spade, raised her face for his kiss. Instead, he put an arm around her shoulders, turned her slightly, kissed her on the cheek.

“You didn’t tell me you were in town!” she exclaimed in a slightly hurt voice.

“Just for the day,” he lied easily. “On a case.”

“And you came into Graham’s for old time’s sake,” she said. “Because we met here.” In that light her eyes looked almost violet. “That first time, you came in to get a book and instead you got...” — she opened her arms wide — “me!”

Spade grunted. “Just as a rental.”

“That’s a nasty thing to say to a girl, Sam.”

“Not a girl anymore. Not Ida Nolan anymore.”

“What did you expect? You ran off to be a hero in France.”

His eyes hardened between down-drawn brows. He said in a sarcastic voice, “I love you, Sam. I’ll wait for you, Sam.”

“I got lonely.”

“And married Miles Archer three months after I left.”

“Miles was here. Miles was eager to marry me. Miles—”

“I saw Miles in Tacoma a couple of nights ago,” Spade said. “He thanked me.”

She said almost cautiously, “For what?”

“Going into the army. Leaving him an open field.”

“He isn’t due back from Tacoma until tomorrow...”

“I’m booked on the four oh five stage to Seattle.”