The Maltese Falcon - Dashiell Hammett [38]
Cairo hesitated, said dubiously: “You have always, I must say, a smooth explanation ready.”
Spade scowled. “What do you want me to do? Learn to stutter? Well, we can talk over here.” He led the way to the divan.
When they were seated he asked: “Dundy take you down to the Hall?”
“Yes.”
“How long did they work on you?”
“Until a very little while ago, and very much against my will.” Pain and indignation were mixed in Cairo’s face and voice. “I shall certainly take the matter up with the Consulate General of Greece and with an attorney.”
“Go ahead, and see what it gets you. What did you let the police shake out of you?”
There was prim satisfaction in Cairo’s smile. “Not a single thing. I adhered to the course you indicated earlier in your rooms.” His smile went away. “Though I certainly wished you had devised a more reasonable story. I felt decidedly ridiculous repeating it.”
Spade grinned mockingly. “Sure,” he said, “but its goofiness is what makes it good. You sure you didn’t give them anything?”
“You may rely upon it, Mr. Spade, I did not.”
Spade drummed with his fingers on the leather seat between them. “You’ll be hearing from Dundy again. Stay dummied-up on him and you’ll be all right. Don’t worry about the story’s goofiness. A sensible one would’ve had us all in the cooler.” He rose to his feet. “You’ll want sleep if you’ve been standing up under a police-storm all night. See you later.”
Effie Perine was saying, “No, not yet,” into the telephone when Spade entered his outer office. She looked around at him and her lips shaped a silent word: “Iva.” He shook his head. “Yes, I’ll have him call you as soon as he comes in,” she said aloud and replaced the receiver on its prong. “That’s the third time she’s called up this morning,” she told Spade.
He made an impatient growling noise.
The girl moved her brown eyes to indicate the inner office. “Your Miss O’Shaughnessy’s in there. She’s been waiting since a few minutes after nine.”
Spade nodded as if he had expected that and asked: “What else?”
“Sergeant Polhaus called up. He didn’t leave any message.”
“Get him for me.”
“And G. called up.”
Spade’s eyes brightened. He asked: “Who?”
“G. That’s what he said.” Her air of personal indifference to the subject was flawless. “When I told him you weren’t in he said: ‘When he comes in, will you please tell him that G., who got his message, phoned and will phone again?’.”
Spade worked his lips together as if tasting something he liked. “Thanks, darling,” he said. “See if you can get Tom Polhaus.” He opened the inner door and went into his private office, pulling the door to behind him.
Brigid O’Shaughnessy, dressed as on her first visit to the office, rose from a chair beside his desk and came quickly towards him. “Somebody has been in my apartment,” she explained. “It is all upside-down, every which way.”
He seemed moderately surprised. “Anything taken?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. I was afraid to stay. I changed as fast as I could and came down here. Oh, you must’ve let that boy follow you there!”
Spade shook his head. “No, angel.” He took an early copy of an afternoon paper from his pocket, opened it, and showed her a quarter-column headed SCREAM ROUTS BURGLAR.
A young woman named Carolin Beale, who lived alone in a Sutter Street apartment, had been awakened at four that morning by the sound of somebody moving in her bedroom. She had screamed. The mover had run away. Two other women who lived alone in the same building had discovered, later in the morning, signs of the burglars having visited their apartments. Nothing had been taken from any of the three.
“That’s where I shook him,” Spade explained. “I went into that building and ducked out the back door. That’s why all three were women who lived alone. He tried the apartments that had women’s names in the vestibule-register, hunting for you under an alias.”
“But he was watching your place when we were there,” she objected.
Spade shrugged. “There’s no reason to think he