front of the rack, and he grabs the first one he comes to. All right. Now he’s got to put it around the dead man’s neck – or wait – he gets a better idea. Pull off some more clothes and puzzle the police. The tie’ll be just as inconspicuous off as on, if the shirt’s off too. Undressing him, he gets another idea. He’ll give the police something else to worry about, so he draws a mystic sign he has seen somewhere on the dead man’s chest.”
Spade emptied his cup, set it down, and went on: “By now he’s getting to be a regular master-mind at bewildering the police. A threatening letter signed with the thing on Max’s chest. The afternoon mail is on the desk. One envelope’s as good as another so long as it’s typewritten and has no return address, but the one from France adds a touch of the foreign, so out comes the original letter and in goes the threat. He’s overdoing it now; see? He’s giving us so much that’s wrong that we can’t help suspecting things that seem all right – the phone call, for instance.
“Well, he’s ready for the phone calls now – his alibi. He picks my name out of the private detectives in the phone book and does the Mr. Kruger trick; but that’s after he calls the blond Elise and tells her that not only have the obstacles to their marriage been removed, but he’s had an offer to go in business in New York and has to leave right away, and will she meet him in fifteen minutes and get married? There’s more than just an alibi to that. He wants to make sure she is dead sure he didn’t kill Max, because she knows he doesn’t like Max, and he doesn’t want her to think he was just stringing her along to get the dope on Max, because she might be able to put two and two together and get something like the right answer.
“With that taken care of, he’s ready to leave. He goes out quite openly, with only one thing to worry about now – the tie and pin in his pocket. He takes the pin along because he’s not sure the police mightn’t find traces of blood around the setting of the stones, no matter how carefully he wipes it. On his way out he picks up a newspaper – buys one from the newsboy he meets at the street door – wads tie and pin up in a piece of it, and drops it in the rubbish can at the corner. That seems all right. No reason for the police to look for the tie. No reason for the street cleaner who empties the can to investigate a crumpled piece of newspaper, and if something does go wrong – what the deuce! – the murderer dropped it there, but he, Theodore, can’t be the murderer, because he’s going to have an alibi.
“Then he jumps in his car and drives to the Municipal Building. He knows there are plenty of phones there and he can always say he’s got to wash his hands, but it turns out he doesn’t have to. While they’re waiting for the judge to get through with a case he goes out to smoke a cigarette, and there you are – ‘Mr. Spade, this is Max Bliss and I’ve been threatened.’”
Effie Ferine nodded, then asked, “Why do you suppose he picked on a private detective instead of the police?”
“Playing safe. If the body had been found, meanwhile, the police might’ve heard of it and traced the call. A private detective wouldn’t be likely to hear about it till he read it in the papers.”
She laughed, then said, “And that was your luck.”
“Luck? I don’t know.” He looked gloomily at the back of his left hand. “I hurt a knuckle stopping him and the job only lasted an afternoon. Chances are whoever’s handling the estate’ll raise hob if I send them a bill for any decent amount of money.” He raised a hand to attract the waiter’s attention. “Oh, well, better luck next time. Want to catch a movie or have you got something else to do?”
TOO MANY HAVE LIVED
The man’s tie was as orange as a sunset. He was a large man, tall and meaty, without softness. The dark hair parted in the middle, flattened to his scalp, his firm, full cheeks, the clothes that fit him with noticeable snugness, even the small pink ears flat against the side of his head – each of these seemed but a differently coloured part of one same smooth surface. His age could have been thirty-five or forty-five.
He sat beside Samuel Spade’s desk, leaning forward a little over his Malacca stick, and said, “No, I want you to find out what happened to him. I hope you never find him.” His protuberant green eyes stared solemnly at Spade.
Spade rocked back in his chair. His face – given a not unpleasantly Satanic cast by the V’s of his bony chin, mouth, nostrils, and thickish brows – was as politely interested as his voice. “Why?”
The green-eyed man spoke quietly, with assurance, “I can talk to you, Spade. You’ve the sort of reputation I want in a private detective. That’s why I am here.”
Spade’s nod committed him to nothing.
The green-eyed man said, “And any fair price is all right with me.” Spade nodded as before. “And with me,” he said, “but I’ve got to know ‘what you want to buy. You want to find out what happened to this – uh – Eli Haven, but you don’t care what it is?”
The green-eyed man lowered his voice, but there was no other change in mien. “In a way I do. For instance, if you found him and fixed it so he stayed away for good, it might be worth more money.”
“You mean even if he didn’t want to stay away?”
The green-eyed man said, “Especially.”
Spade smiled and shook his head. “Probably not enough more money – the way you mean it.” He took his long, thick-fingered hands from the arms of his chair and turned their palms up. “Well, what’s it all about, Colyer?”
Colyer’s face reddened a little, but his eyes maintained their unblinking cold stare. “This man’s got a wife. I like her. They had a row last week and he blew. If I can convince her he’s gone for good, there’s a chance she’ll divorce him.”
“I’d want to talk to her,” Spade said. “Who is this Eli Haven?”
“He’s a bad egg. He doesn’t do anything. Writes poetry or something.”
“What can you tell me about him that’ll help?”
“Nothing Julia, his wife, can’t tell you. You’re going to talk to her.” Colyer stood up. “I’ve got connections. Maybe I can get something for you through them later.”
A small-Boned woman of twenty-five or -six opened the apartment door. Her powder-blue dress was trimmed with silver buttons. She was full-bosomed but slim, with straight shoulders and narrow hips, and she carried herself with a pride that would have been cockiness in one less graceful.
Spade said, “Mrs. Haven?”
She hesitated before saying, “Yes.”
“Gene Colyer sent me to see you. My name’s Spade. I’m a private detective. He wants me to find your husband.”
“And have you found him?”
“I told him I’d have to talk to you first.”
Her smile went away. She studied his face gravely, feature by feature, then she said, “Certainly,” and stepped back, drawing the door back with her.
When they were seated in facing chairs in a cheaply furnished room overlooking a playground where children were noisy, she asked, “Did Gene tell you why he wanted Eli found?”
“He said if you knew he was gone for good maybe you’d listen to reason.”
She said nothing.
“Has he ever gone off like this before?”
“Often.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a swell man,” she said dispassionately, “when he’s sober; and when he’s drinking he’s all right except with women and money.”
“That leaves him a lot of room to be all right in. What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a poet,” she replied, “but nobody makes a living at that.”
“Well?”
“Oh, he pops in with a little money now and then. Poker, races, he says. I don’t know.”
“How long’ve you been married?”
“Four years, almost.” She smiled mockingly.
“San Francisco all the time?”
“No, we lived in Seattle the first year and then came here.”
“He from Seattle?”
