The Adventures Of Sam Spade

by Dashiell Hammett

  Spade stood up and put a hand to his head. He scowled at the old man on the floor, at the room, at the black automatic pistol lying on the hallway floor. He said: “Come on, you old cutthroat. Get up and sit on a chair and I'll see if I can stop that bleeding till the doctor gets here.”

  The man on the floor did not move.

  There were footsteps in the hallway and Dundy came in, followed by the two younger Binnetts. Dundy's face was dark and furious. “Kitchen door wide open,” he said in a choked voice. “They run in and out like—“

  “Forget it,” Spade said. “Uncle Tim is our meat.” He paid no attention to Wallace Binnett's gasp, to the incredulous looks on Dundy's and Ira Binnett's faces. “Come on, get up,” he said to the old man on the floor, “and tell us what it was the butler saw when he peeped through the keyhole.”

  The old man did not stir.

  “He killed the butler because I told him the butler had peeped,” Spade explained to Dundy. “I peeped, too, but didn't see anything except that chair and the window, though we'd made enough racket by then to scare him back to bed. Suppose you take the chair apart while I go over the window.” He went to the window and began to examine it carefully. He shook his head, put a hand out behind him, and said: “Give me the flashlight.”

  Dundy put the flashlight in his hand.

  Spade raised the window and leaned out, turning the light on the outside of the building. Presently he grunted and put his other hand out, tugging at a brick a little below the sill. Presently the brick came loose. He put it on the window sill and stuck his hand into the hole its removal had made. Out of the opening, one at a time, he brought an empty black pistol holster, a partially filled box of cartridges, and an unsealed manila envelope.

  Holding these things in his hands, he turned to face the others. Joyce Court came in with a basin of water and a roll of gauze and knelt beside Timothy Binnett. Spade put the holster and cartridges on a table and opened the manila envelope. Inside were two sheets of paper, covered on both sides with boldly penciled writing. Spade read a paragraph to himself, suddenly laughed, and began at the beginning again, reading aloud:

  ” 'I, Timothy Kieran Binnett, being sound of mind and body, do declare this to be my last will and testament. To my dear nephews, Ira Binnett and Wallace Bourke Binnett, in recognition of the loving kindness with which they have received me into their homes and attended my declining years, I give and bequeath, share and share alike, all my worldly possessions of whatever kind, to wit, my carcass and the clothes I stand in.

  ” 'I bequeath them, furthermore, the expense of my funeral and these memories: First, the memory of their credulity in believing that the fifteen years I spent in Sing Sing were spent in Australia; second, the memory of their optimism in supposing that those fifteen years had brought me great wealth, and that if I lived on them, borrowed from them, and never spent any of my own money, it was because I was a miser whose hoard they would inherit; and not because I had no money except what I shook them down for; third, for their hopefulness in thinking that I would leave either of them anything if I had it; and, lastly because their painful lack of any decent sense of humor will keep them from ever seeing how funny this has all been. Signed and sealed this—' ”

  Spade looked up to say: “There is no date, but it's signed Timothy Kieran Binnett with flourishes.”

  Ira Binnett was purple with anger, Wallace's face was ghastly in its pallor and his whole body was trembling. Joyce Court had stopped working on Timothy Binnett's arm.

  The old man sat up and opened his eyes. He looked at his nephews and began to laugh. There was in his laughter neither hysteria nor madness: it was sane, hearty laughter, and subsided slowly.

  Spade said: “All right, now you've had your fun. Let's talk about the killings.”

  “I know nothing more about the first one than I've told you,” the old man said, “and this one's not a killing, since I'm only—”

  Wallace Binnett, still trembling violently, said painfully through his teeth: “That's a lie. You killed Molly. Joyce and I came out of her room when we heard Molly scream, and heard the shot and saw her fall out of your room, and nobody came out afterwards.”

  The old man said calmly: “Well, I'll tell you: it was an accident. They told me there was a fellow from Australia here to see me about some of my properties there. I knew there was something funny about that somewhere”—he grinned—“not ever having been there. I didn't know whether one of my dear nephews was getting suspicious and putting up a game on me or what, but I knew that if Wally wasn't in on it he'd certainly try to pump the gentleman from Australia about me and maybe I'd lose one of my free boarding houses.” He chuckled.

  “So I figured I'd get in touch with Ira so I could go back to his house if things worked out bad here, and I'd try to get rid of this Australian. Wally's always thought I'm half-cracked”—he leered at his nephew—“and's afraid they'll lug me off to a madhouse before I could make a will in his favor, or they'll break it if I do. You see, he's got a pretty bad reputation, what with that Stock Exchange trouble and all, and he knows no court would appoint him to handle my affairs if I went screwy—not as long as I've got another nephew”—he turned his leer on Ira—“who's a respectable lawyer. So now I know that rather than have me kick up a row that might wind me up in the madhouse, he'll chase this visitor, and I put on a show for Molly, who happened to be the nearest one to hand. She took it too seriously, though.

  “I had a gun and I did a lot of raving about being spied on by my enemies in Australia and that I was going down and shoot this fellow. But she got too excited and tried to take the gun away from me, and the first thing I knew it had gone off, and I had to make these marks on my neck and think up that story about the big dark man.” He looked contemptuously at Wallace. “I didn't know he was covering me up. Little as I thought of him, I never thought he'd be low enough to cover up his wife's murderer—even if he didn't like her—just for the sake of money.” Spade said: “Never mind that. Now about the butler?”

  “I don't know anything about the butler,” the old man replied, looking at Spade with steady eyes.

  Spade said: “You had to kill him quick, before he had time to do or say anything. So you slip down the back stairs, open the kitchen door to fool people, go to the front door, ring the bell, shut the door, and hide in the shadow of the cellar door under the front steps. When Jarboe answered the doorbell you shot him—the hole was in the back of his head—pulled the light switch, just inside the cellar door, and ducked up the back stairs in the dark and shot yourself carefully in the arm. I got up there too soon for you; so you smacked me with the gun, chucked it through the door, and spread yourself on the floor while I was shaking pinwheels out of my noodle.” The old man sniffed again. “You're just—“

  “Stop it,” Spade said patiently. “Don't let's argue. The first killing was an accident—all right. The second couldn't be. And it ought to be easy to show that both bullets, and the one in your arm, were fired from the same gun. What difference does it make which killing we can prove first-degree murder on? They can only hang you once.” He smiled pleasantly. “And they will.”

  A MAN CALLED SPADE

  SAMUEL SPADE put his telephone aside and looked at his watch. It was not quite four o'clock. He called, “Yoo-hoo!”

  Effie Perine came in from the outer office. She was eating a piece of chocolate cake.

  “Tell Sid Wise I won't be able to keep that date this afternoon,” he said.

  She put the last of the cake into her mouth and licked the tips of forefinger and thumb. “That's the third time this week.”

  When he smiled, the v's of his chin, mouth, and brows grew longer. “I know, but I've got to go out and save a life.” He nodded at the telephone. “Somebody's scaring Max Bliss.”

  She laughed. “Probably somebody named John D. Conscience.”

  He looked up at her from the cigarette he had begun to make. “Know anything I ought to know about him?”
>
  “Nothing you don't know. I was just thinking about the time he let his brother go to San Quentin.”

  Spade shrugged. “That's not the worst thing he's done.” He lit his cigarette, stood up, and reached for his hat. “But he's all right now. All Samuel Spade clients are honest, God-fearing folk. If I'm not back at closing time just run along.”

  He went to a tall apartment building on Nob Hill, pressed a button set in the frame of a door marked 10K. The door was opened immediately by a burly dark man in wrinkled dark clothes. He was nearly bald and carried a gray hat in one hand.

  The burly man said, “Hello, Sam.” He smiled, but his small eyes lost none of their shrewdness. “What are you doing here?”

  Spade said, “Hello, Torn.” His face was wooden, his voice expressionless. “Bliss in?”

  “Is he!” Tom pulled down the corners of his thick-lipped mouth. “You don't have to worry about that.”

  Spade's brows came together. “Well?”

  A man appeared in the vestibule behind Tom. He was smaller than either Spade or Tom, but compactly built. He had a ruddy, square face and a close-trimmed, grizzled mustache. His clothes were neat. He wore a black bowler perched on the back of his head.

  Spade addressed this man over Tom's shoulder: “Hello, Dundy.”

  Dundy nodded briefly and came to the door. His blue eyes were hard and prying.

  “What is it?” he asked Tom.

  “B-1-i-s-s, M-a-x,” Spade spelled patiently. “I want to see him. He wants to see me. Catch on?”

  Tom laughed. Dundy did not. Tom said, “Only one of you gets your wish.” Then he glanced sidewise at Dundy and abruptly stopped laughing. He seemed uncomfortable.

  Spade scowled. “All right,” he demanded irritably; “is he dead or has he killed somebody?”

  Dundy thrust his square face up at Spade and seemed to push his words out with his lower Up. “What makes you think either?”

  Spade said, “Oh, sure! I come calling on Mr. Bliss and I'm stopped at the door by a couple of men from the police Homicide Detail, and I'm supposed to think I'm just interrupting a game of rummy.”

  “Aw, stop it, Sam,” Tom grumbled, looking at neither Spade nor Dundy. “He's dead.”

  “Killed?”

  Tom wagged his head slowly up and down. He looked at Spade now. “What've you got on it?”

  Spade replied in a deliberate monotone, “He called me up this afternoon—say at five minutes to four—I looked at my watch after he hung up and there was still a minute or so to go—and said somebody was after his scalp. He wanted me to come over. It seemed real enough to him—it was up in his neck all right.” He made a small gesture with one hand. “Well, here I am.”

  “Didn't say who or how?” Dundy asked.

  Spade shook his head. “No. Just somebody had offered to kill him and he believed them, and would I come over right away.”

  “Didn't he—?” Dundy began quickly.

  “He didn't say anything else,” Spade said. “Don't you people tell me anything?”

  Dundy said curtly, “Come in and take a look at him.”

  Tom said, “It's a sight.”

  They went across the vestibule and through a door into a green and rose living-room.

  A man near the door stopped sprinkling white powder on the end of a glass-covered small table to say, “Hello, Sam.”

  Spade nodded, said, “How are you, Phels?” and then nodded at the two men who stood talking by a window.

  The dead man lay with his mouth open. Some of his clothes had been taken off. His throat was puffy and dark. The end of his tongue showing in a corner of his mouth was bluish, swollen. On his bare chest, over the heart, a five-pointed star had been outlined in black ink and in the center of it a T.

  Spade looked down at the dead man and stood for a moment silently studying him. Then he asked, “He was found like that?”

  “About,” Tom said. “We moved him around a little.” He jerked a thumb at the shirt, undershirt, vest, and coat lying on a table. “They were spread over the floor.”

  Spade rubbed his chin. His yellow-gray eyes were dreamy. “When?”

  Tom said, “We got it at four-twenty. His daughter gave it to us.” He moved his head to indicate a closed door. “You'll see her.”

  “Know anything?”

  “Heaven knows,” Tom said wearily. “She's been kind of hard to get along with so far.” He turned to Dundy. “Want to try her again now?”

  Dundy nodded, then spoke to one of the men at the window. “Start sifting his papers, Mack. He's supposed to've been threatened.”

  Mack said, “Right.” He pulled his hat down over his eyes and walked towards a green secretaire in the far end of the room.

  A man came in from the corridor, a heavy man of fifty with a deeply lined, grayish face under a broad-brimmed black hat. He said, “Hello, Sam,” and then told Dundy, “He had company around half past two, stayed just about an hour. A big blond man in brown, maybe forty or forty-five. Didn't send his name up. I got it from the Filipino in the elevator that rode him both ways.”

  “Sure it was only an hour?” Dundy asked.

  The gray-faced man shook his head. “But he's sure it wasn't more than half past three when he left. He says the afternoon papers came in then, and this man had ridden down with him before they came.” He pushed his hat back to scratch his head, then pointed a thick finger at the design inked on the dead man's breast and asked somewhat plaintively, “What the deuce do you suppose that thing is?”

  Nobody replied. Dundy asked, “Can the elevator boy identify him?”

  “He says he could, but that ain't always the same thing. Says he never saw him before.” He stopped looking at the dead man. “The girl's getting me a list of his phone calls. How you been, Sam?”

  Spade said he had been all right. Then he said slowly, “His brother's big and blond and maybe forty or forty-five.”

  Dundy's blue eyes were hard and bright. “So what?” he asked.

  “You remember the Graystone Loan swindle. They were both in it, but Max eased the load over on Theodore and it turned out to be one to fourteen years in San Quentin.”

  Dundy was slowly wagging his head up and down. “I remember now. Where is he?”

  Spade shrugged and began to make a cigarette.

  Dundy nudged Tom with an elbow. “Find out.”

  Tom said, “Sure, but if he was out of here at half past three and this fellow was still alive at five to four—”

  “And he broke his leg so he couldn't duck back in,” the gray-faced man said jovially.

  “Find out,” Dundy repeated.

  Tom said, “Sure, sure,” and went to the telephone.

  Dundy addressed the gray-faced man: “Check up on the newspapers; see what time they were actually delivered this afternoon.”

  The gray-faced man nodded and left the room.

  The man who had been searching the secretaire said, “Uh-huh,” and turned around holding an envelope in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other.

  Dundy held out his hand. “Something?”

  The man said, “Uh-huh,” again and gave Dundy the sheet of paper.

  Spade was looking over Dundy's shoulder.

  It was a small sheet of common white paper bearing a penciled message in neat, undistinguished handwriting:

  When this reaches you I will be too close for you to escape —this time. We will balance our accounts—for good.

  The signature was a five-pointed star enclosing a T, the design on the dead man's left breast.

  Dundy held out his hand again and was given the envelope. Its stamp was French. The address was typewritten:

  MAX BLISS, ESQ.

  AMSTERDAM APARTMENTS, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. U. S. A.

  “Postmarked Paris,” he said, “the second of the month.” He counted swiftly on his fingers. “That would get it here today, all right.” He folded the message slowly, put it in the envelope, put the envelope in his coat pocket. “K
eep digging,” he told the man who had found the message.

  The man nodded and returned to the secretaire.

  Dundy looked at Spade. “What do you think of it?”

  Spade's brown cigarette wagged up and down with the words. “I don't like it. I don't like any of it.”

  Tom put down the telephone. “He got out the fifteenth of last month,” he said. “I got them trying to locate him.”

  Spade went to the telephone, called a number, and asked for Mr. Darrell. Then: “Hello, Harry, this is Sam Spade. . . . Fine. How's Lil? . .. Yes. … Listen, Harry, what does a five-pointed star with a capital T in the middle mean? . . . What? How do you spell it? … Yes, I see. . . . And if you found it on a body? . . . Neither do I. … Yes, and thanks. I'll tell you about it when I see you. . . .Yes, give me a ring. . . . Thanks. . . . 'By.”

  Dundy and Tom were watching him closely when he turned from the telephone. He said, “That's a fellow who knows things sometimes. He says it's a pentagram with a Greek tau—t-a-u—in the middle; a sign magicians used to use. Maybe Rosicrucians still do.”

  “What's a Rosicrucian?” Tom asked.

  “It could be Theodore's first initial, too,” Dundy said.

  Spade moved his shoulders, said carelessly, “Yes, but if he wanted to autograph the job it'd been just as easy for him to sign his name.”

  He then went on more thoughtfully, “There are Rosicrucians at both San Jose and Point Loma. I don't go much for this, but maybe we ought to look them up.”

  Dundy nodded.

  Spade looked at the dead man's clothes o'n the table. “Anything in his pockets?”

  “Only what you'd expect to find,” Dundy replied. “It's on the table there.”

  Spade went to the table and looked down at the little pile of watch and chain, keys, wallet, address book, money, gold pencil, handkerchief, and spectacle case beside the clothing. He did not touch them, but slowly picked up, one at a time, the dead man's shirt, undershirt, vest, and coat. A blue necktie lay on the table beneath them. He scowled irritably at it. “It hasn't been worn,” he complained.