The Maltese Falcon - Dashiell Hammett [66]
Spade carried the girl back to the green-carpeted room and tried the opposite door. Through it he passed into another passageway, past another empty bathroom, and into a bedroom that was feminine in its accessories. He turned back the bedclothes and laid the girl on the bed, removed her slippers, raised her a little to slide the yellow dressing-gown off, fixed a pillow under her head, and put the covers up over her.
Then he opened the room’s two windows and stood with his back to them staring at the sleeping girl. Her breathing was heavy but not troubled. He frowned and looked around, working his lips together. Twilight was dimming the room. He stood there in the weakening light for perhaps five minutes. Finally he shook his thick sloping shoulders impatiently and went out, leaving the suite’s outer door unlocked.
Spade went to the Pacific Telephone and Telegraph Company’s station in Powell Street and called Davenport 2020. “Emergency Hospital, please…. Hello, there’s a girl in suite twelve C at the Alexandria Hotel who has been drugged…. Yes, you’d better send somebody to take a look at her…. This is Mr. Hooper of the Alexandria.”
He put the receiver on its prong and laughed. He called another number and said: “Hello, Frank. This is Sam Spade…. Can you let me have a car with a driver who’ll keep his mouth shut? … To go down the peninsula right away…. Just a couple of hours…. Right. Have him pick me up at John’s, Ellis Street, as soon as he can make it.”
He called another number—his office’s—held the receiver to his ear for a little while without saying anything, and replaced it on its hook.
He went to John’s Grill, asked the waiter to hurry his order of chops, baked potato, and sliced tomatoes, ate hurriedly, and was smoking a cigarette with his coffee when a thick-set youngish man with a plaid cap set askew above pale eyes and a tough cheery face came into the Grill and to his table.
“All set, Mr. Spade. She’s full of gas and rearing to go.”
“Swell.” Spade emptied his cup and went out with the thickset man. “Know where Ancho Avenue, or Road, or Boulevard, is in Burlingame?”
“Nope, but if she’s there we can find her.”
“Let’s do that,” Spade said as he sat beside the chauffeur in the dark Cadillac sedan. “Twenty-six is the number we want, and the sooner the better, but we don’t want to pull up at the front door.”
“Correct.”
They rode half a dozen blocks in silence. The chauffeur said: “Your partner got knocked off, didn’t he, Mr. Spade?”
“Uh-huh.”
The chauffeur clucked. “She’s a tough racket. You can have it for mine.”
“Well, hack-drivers don’t live forever.”
“Maybe that’s right,” the thick-set man conceded, “but, just the same, it’ll always be a surprise to me if I don’t.”
Spade stared ahead at nothing and thereafter, until the chauffeur tired of making conversation, replied with uninterested yeses and noes.
At a drug-store in Burlingame the chauffeur learned how to reach Ancho Avenue. Ten minutes later he stopped the sedan near a dark corner, turned off the lights, and waved his hand at the block ahead. “There she is,” he said. “She ought to be on the other side, maybe the third or fourth house.”
Spade said, “Right,” and got out of the car. “Keep the engine going. We may have to leave in a hurry.”
He crossed the street and went up the other side. Far ahead a lone street-light burned. Warmer lights dotted the night on either side where houses were spaced half a dozen to a block. A high thin moon was cold and feeble as the distant street-light. A radio droned through the open windows of a house on the other side of the street.
In front of the second house from the corner