The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  There was a large wallet of dark soft leather. The wallet contained three hundred and sixty-five dollars in United States bills of several sizes; three five-pound notes; a much-viséd Greek passport bearing Cairo’s name and portrait; five folded sheets of pinkish onion skin paper covered with what seemed to be Arabic writing; a raggedly clipped newspaper account of the finding of Archer’s and Thursby’s bodies; a postcard photograph of a dusky woman with bold cruel eyes and a tender drooping mouth; a large silk handkerchief, yellow with age and somewhat cracked along its folds; an American Express receipt for a package sent that day to Constantinople; and a thin sheaf of Mr. Joel Cairo’s engraved cards.

  Besides the wallet and its contents there were three gaily colored silk handkerchiefs, fragrant of chypre; a platinum Longines watch on a platinum and red gold chain, attached at the other end to a small pear-shaped pendant of some white metal, which rattled when shaken and was intricately carved and inlaid with black and green in overlapping geometrical patterns; a handful of United States, British, French, and Chinese coins; a ring holding half a dozen keys; a silver-and-onyx fountain pen; a metal comb in a leatherette case; a nail file in a leatherette case; a small street guide to San Francisco; a ticket for an orchestra seat at the Geary that evening; a Southern Pacific baggage check; a half-filled package of violet pastilles; a Shanghai insurance broker’s business card; and four sheets of Hotel Belvedere writing paper, on one of which was written in small precise letters Samuel Spade’s name and his business and residential addresses.

  Having examined these articles carefully—he even opened the back of the watchcase to see that nothing was concealed inside—Spade leaned over and took the unconscious man’s wrist between finger and thumb, feeling his pulse. Then he put the wrist down, leaned back in his chair, and rolled and lighted another cigarette.

  His face while he smoked was, except for occasional slight and apparently aimless movements of his lower lip, so still and reflective that it seemed stupid. But when Cairo presently moaned and fluttered his eyelids Spade’s face became bland, and he put the beginning of a friendly smile into his eyes and mouth.

  Joel Cairo awakened slowly. His eyes opened first, but a full minute passed before they fixed their gaze on any definite part of the ceiling. Then he shut his mouth and swallowed, exhaling heavily through his nose afterward. He drew in one foot and turned a hand over on his thigh. Then he raised his head from the chair-back, looked around the office in confusion, saw Spade, and sat up. He opened his mouth to speak, started, clapped a hand to his face where Spade’s fist had struck and where there was now a florid bruise.

  He said through his teeth, painfully:

  “I could have shot you, Mr. Spade.”

  “You could have tried,” Spade conceded.

  “I did not try.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why did you strike me after I was disarmed?”

  “Sorry.” Spade grinned wolfishly, showing his jaw teeth. “But imagine my embarrassment when I found your five-thousand-dollar offer was just hooey.”

  “You are mistaken, Mr. Spade. That was, and is, a genuine offer.”

  “What the hell?” Spade’s surprise was genuine.

  “I am prepared to pay five thousand dollars for the figure’s return.” Cairo took his hand away from his bruised face and sat up prim and business-like again. “You have it?”

  “No.”

  “If it is not here”—Cairo was very politely skeptical—“why should you have risked serious injury to prevent my searching for it?”

  Spade flicked a finger at Cairo’s possessions on the desk. “You’ve got my apartment address. Been up there yet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Spade. I am ready to pay five thousand dollars for the figure’s return, but surely it is natural enough that I should first try to spare the owner that expense if possible.”

  “Who is he?”

  Cairo shook his head. “I cannot reveal his name.”

  “The fellow you sent the package to Constantinople to?” Spade asked carelessly. “Inkinopolis or something?”

  Cairo hesitated, then said: “That package will reach him, yes.”

  “What was in it?”

  Cairo smiled. “You will have to forgive my not answering that.”

  “Will I?” Spade leaned forward, smiling with tight lips. “I’ve got you by the neck, Cairo. You’ve walked in and tied yourself up, plenty strong enough to suit the police, with last night’s killings. Well, now you’ll have to play with me or else.”

  Cairo’s smile was demure, but not in any way alarmed.

  “I made somewhat extensive inquiries about you before taking any action,” he said, “and was assured that you were far too reasonable to allow other considerations to interfere with profitable business relations.”

  Spade shrugged.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “I have offered you five thousand dollars for the—”

  Spade thumped Cairo’s wallet with the backs of his fingers and said:

  “There’s nothing like five thousand dollars here. You’re betting your eyes. You could come in and say, ‘I’ll pay you a million for a purple elephant.’ But what the hell would that mean?”

  “I see, I see,” Cairo lisped thoughtfully, screwing up his eyes. “You wish some assurance of my sincerity.” He stroked his red lower lip with a finger-tip. “A retainer, would that serve?”

  “It might.”

  Cairo put his hand out toward his wallet, hesitated, withdrew the hand, and said:

  “Will you take, say, a hundred dollars?”

  Spade picked up the wallet and took out a hundred dollars. Then he frowned, said, “Better make it two hundred,” and did.

  Cairo said nothing.

  “Your first guess was that I had the bird,” Spade said in a crisp voice when he had put the two hundred dollars in his pocket and had returned the wallet to the desk-top. “There’s nothing in that. What’s your second?”

  “That you know where it is, or, if not exactly that, that you know it is where you can get it.”

  Spade neither denied nor affirmed this: he seemed hardly to have heard it. He asked: “What proof can you give me that your man is the owner?”

  “Unfortunately, very little. There is this, though: nobody else can give you any authentic evidence of ownership at all. And if you know as much about the affair as I suppose—or I should not be here—you know that the means by which it was taken from him show that his right to it was more valid than anyone else’s—certainly more valid than Thursby’s.”

  “What about his daughter?” Spade asked.

  Excitement opened Cairo’s eyes and mouth, turned his face pink, made his voice shrill.

  “He is not the owner!”

  Spade said, “Oh,” mildly and ambiguously.

  “Is he here, in San Francisco, now?” Cairo asked in a less shrill, but still excited voice.

  Spade blinked his eyes sleepily and suggested:

  “It might be better all around if we both put our cards on the table.”

  Cairo recovered composure with a tiny jerk.

  “I do not think that would be better,” he said. His voice was suave now. “If you know more than I, I shall profit by your knowledge, and so will you to the extent of five thousand dollars. If you do not, I have made a mistake in coming to you, and to do as you suggest would be simply to make that mistake worse.”

  Spade nodded indifferently and waved his hand at the articles on the desk, saying: “There’s your stuff.” And then, when Cairo was returning the articles to his pockets: “It’s understood that you’re to pay my expenses while I’m getting this bird back for you, and five thousand dollars when it’s done.”

  “Yes, Mr. Spade. That is, five thousand less whatever moneys have been advanced to you, five thousand in all.”

  “Right. And it’s a legitimate proposition.” Spade’s face was solemn except for wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “You’re not hiring me to
do any murders or burglaries, but simply to get it back if possible in an honest and lawful way.”

  “If possible,” Cairo agreed. His face also was solemn except for the eyes. “And in any event with discretion.” He rose and picked up his hat. “I am at the Hotel Belvedere when you wish to communicate with me, room 635. I confidently expect the greatest mutual benefit from our association, Mr. Spade.” He hesitated. “May I have my pistol?”

  “Sure. I’d forgotten it.”

  Spade took the pistol out of his coat pocket and handed it to Cairo.

  Cairo pointed the pistol at Spade’s chest.

  “You will please keep your hands on the top of the desk,” he said earnestly. “I intend to search your offices.”

  Spade said: “I’ll be damned.” Then he laughed in his throat and said: “All right. Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE UNDERSIZED SHADOW

  or half an hour after Joel Cairo had gone Spade sat alone, still and frowning, in his office. Then he said aloud in the tone of one dismissing a problem, “Well, they’re paying for it,” and took a bottle of Manhattan cocktail and a paper drinking cup from a desk drawer. He filled the cup two-thirds full, drank, put the bottle back in the drawer, tossed the cup into the waste basket, put on his hat and overcoat, switched off the lights, and went down to the night-lit street.

  An undersized youth of twenty or twenty-one in a neat gray cap and overcoat was standing idly on the corner below Spade’s building.

  Spade walked up Sutter Street to Kearney, where he went into a cigar store to buy two sacks of Bull Durham. When he came out the youth was one of the four people waiting for a street car on the opposite corner.

  Spade went to Herbert’s Grill in Powell Street for dinner. When he left the grill, at a quarter to eight, the youth was looking into a nearby haberdasher’s window.

  Spade went to the Hotel Belvedere, asking at the desk for Mr. Cairo. He was told that Mr. Cairo was not in. The youth sat in a chair in a far corner of the hotel lobby.

  Spade went to the Geary Theater, failed to see Cairo in the lobby, and posted himself on the curb in front, facing the theater. The youth loitered with other loiterers before Marquard’s restaurant below.

  At ten minutes past eight Joel Cairo appeared, walking up Geary Street with his little mincing, bobbing steps. Apparently he did not see Spade until the private detective touched his shoulder. He seemed moderately surprised for a moment, and then said:

  “Oh, yes, of course, you saw the ticket.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve got something I want to show you.” Spade drew Cairo back toward the curb a little away from the other waiting theater-goers. “The kid in the cap down by Marquard’s.”

  Cairo murmured, “I’ll see,” and looked at his watch. He looked up Geary Street. He looked at a theater sign in front of him on which George Arliss was shown costumed as Shylock, and then his dark eyes crawled sideways in their sockets until they were looking at the kid in the cap, at his cool pale face with curling lashes hiding lowered eyes.

  “Who is he?” Spade asked.

  Cairo smiled up at Spade. “I do not know him.”

  “He’s been tailing me around town.”

  Cairo wet his lower lip with his tongue and asked:

  “Do you think it was wise, then, to let him see us together?”

  “How do I know?” Spade replied. “Anyway, it’s done.”

  Cairo took off his hat and smoothed his hair with a gloved hand. Then he replaced his hat carefully and said with every appearance of candor:

  “I give you my word I do not know him, Mr. Spade. I give you my word I have nothing to do with him. I have asked nobody’s assistance except yours, on my word of honor.”

  “Then he’s one of the others?”

  “That may be.”

  “I just wanted to know, because if he gets to be a nuisance I may have to hurt him.”

  “Do as you think best. He is not a friend of mine.”

  “That’s good. There goes the curtain. Good night,” Spade said, and crossed the street to board a westbound street car.

  The youth in the cap boarded the same car.

  Spade left the car at Hyde Street and went up to his apartment. His rooms were not greatly upset, but showed unmistakably that they had been searched. When Spade had washed and had put on a fresh shirt and collar he went out again, walked up to Sutter Street, and boarded a westbound car. The youth boarded it also.

  Within half a dozen blocks of the Coronet Spade left the car and went into the vestibule of a tall brown apartment building. He pressed three fourth-floor buttons together. The street door lock buzzed. He entered, passed the elevator and stairs, went down a long yellow-walled corridor to the rear of the building, found a back door fastened with a Yale lock, and, leaving the lock unlatched, let himself out into a narrow court.

  The court led to a dark back street, up which Spade walked for two blocks. Then he crossed over to California Street and went to the Coronet. It was not quite half past nine o’clock.

  The eagerness with which Brigid O’Shaughnessy welcomed Spade suggested that she had not been entirely certain of his coming. She had put on a satin gown of the blue shade called Artoise that season, with chalcedony shoulder straps, and her stockings and slippers were Artoise.

  The red and cream sitting-room had been brought to order and livened with flowers in squat pottery vases of black and silver. Three small rough-barked logs burned in the fireplace. Spade watched them burn while she put away his hat and coat.

  “Do you bring me good news?” she asked when she came into the room again. Anxiety looked through her smile, and she held her breath.

  “We won’t have to make anything public that hasn’t already been made public.”

  “The police won’t have to know about me?”

  “No.”

  She sighed happily and sat on the walnut settee. Her face relaxed and her body relaxed. She smiled up at him with admiring eyes.

  “However did you manage it?” she asked, more in wonder than in curiosity.

  “Most things in San Francisco can be bought, or taken.”

  “And you won’t get into trouble? Do sit down.” She made room for him on the settee.

  “I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble,” he said with not too much complacence.

  He stood beside the fireplace and looked at her with eyes that studied, weighed, judged her without pretense that they were not studying, weighing, judging her. She flushed slightly under the frankness of his scrutiny, but she seemed more sure of herself than before, though a becoming shyness had not left her eyes.

  He stood there until it seemed plain that he meant to ignore her invitation to sit beside her, and then crossed to the settee.

  “You aren’t,” he asked as he sat down, “exactly the sort of person you pretend to be, are you?”

  “I’m not sure that I know what you mean,” she said in her hushed voice, looking at him with puzzled eyes.

  “Schoolgirl manner,” he explained, “stammering, blushing, and all that.”

  She blushed and replied hurriedly, not looking at him now:

  “I told you this afternoon that I’ve been bad, worse than you could know.”

  “That’s what I mean,” he said. “You told me that this afternoon in the same words, same tone. It’s a speech you’ve practiced.”

  After a moment in which she seemed confused almost to the point of tears she laughed and said:

  “Very well, then, Mr. Spade. I’m not at all the sort of person I pretend to be. I’m eighty years old, incredibly wicked, and an iron-molder by trade. But if it’s a pose it’s one I’ve grown into, so you won’t expect me to drop it entirely, will you?”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” he assured her. “Only it wouldn’t be all right if you were actually that innocent. We’d never get anywhere.”

  “I won’t be innocent,” she promised with a hand on her heart.

  “I saw Joel Cair
o tonight,” he said in the manner of one making polite conversation.

  Gaiety went out of her face. Her eyes, focused on his profile, became frightened, then cautious. He had stretched out his legs and was looking at his crossed feet. His face did not indicate that he was thinking about anything.

  There was a long pause before she asked uneasily:

  “You—you know him?”

  “I saw him tonight.” Spade maintained his light conversational manner and did not look up from his feet. “He was going into the Geary to see George Arliss.”

  “You mean you saw him to talk to?”

  “Only for a few minutes, till the performance started.”

  She got up from the settee and went to the fireplace to poke at the fire. Then she changed slightly the position of an ornament on the mantelpiece, crossed the room to get a box of cigarettes from a table in a corner, straightened a curtain, and returned to her seat. Her face was now smooth and unworried.

  Spade grinned sidewise at her and said:

  “You’re good. You’re very good.”

  Her face didn’t change. She asked quietly:

  “What did he say?”

  “About what?”

  She hesitated. “About me.”

  “Nothing.” Spade turned to hold his lighter under the end of her cigarette. His eyes were shiny in a wooden Satan’s face.

  “Well, what did he say?” she asked with half-playful petulance.

  “He offered me five thousand dollars for the black bird.”

  She jumped, her teeth tore the end of the cigarette, and her eyes, after a swift alarmed glance at Spade, turned away from him.

  “You’re not going to poke at the fire and go around straightening the room again, are you?” he asked lazily.

  She laughed a clear girlish laugh, dropped the mangled cigarette into a tray, and looked at him with clear merry eyes.

  “I won’t,” she promised. “And what did you say?”