Chapter 4 too many people have lived
The man's tie was as orange as the setting sun.He was a big, tall, fat man, without any gentleness; his black hair was parted flat on his scalp, and his cheeks were full and firm; The small pink ears that fit tightly on either side of the head are part of the distinctive details that together make up this one-piece appearance.He'd have to be thirty-five, or forty-five.
Sitting at Samuel Spade's desk, he leaned forward slightly, over his white Malacca cane, and said, "No. I want you to find out what happened to him. But I hope you never find out. Him." His bulging green eyes stared coldly at Spade.
Spade sat back in his chair.His face, jaw, mouth, and nostrils are V-shaped, and his eyebrows are thick, giving him a satanic look without being annoying.His expression was as polite as his voice, expressing interest. "why?"
The green-eyed man spoke softly, in a confident voice, "I can tell you, Spade. You have the credibility I want in a private eye, so I've come to you."
Spade nodded, but made no promises.
The green-eyed man continued, "And, any fair price is acceptable to me."
Spade nodded as usual. "That's fine with me," he said, "but I need to know what you want to buy. You want to know what happened to this—er, Eli Haven, but you don't care about the truth?"
The green-eyed man lowered his volume, but there was no other change in his expression. "In a way, yes. It would be worth more to me if, for example, you found him and got him and let him go for good."
"You mean, even if he doesn't want to leave?"
The green-eyed man said: "If he refuses to leave, you have to deal with him even more."
Spade smiled and shook his head. "Perhaps no amount of money is enough, as you say." He raised his long, thick hands from the arm of the chair and spread them out, "Well, what the hell is going on, Collier? "
Collier's face flushed slightly, but his eyes remained unblinking, staring at Spade coldly. "This man has a wife. I like her. They went boating last week and he left suddenly. If I can convince her he's never coming back, she could possibly divorce him."
"I want to talk to her," Spade said. "Who is this Eli Haven? What has he done?"
"He's a badass. He doesn't do anything but write poetry or something."
"Can you tell me something useful?"
"There's nothing his wife can't tell you. Her name is Julia. You go ask her." Collier stood up. "I have some acquaintances. Maybe I can get you something from them later."
A diminutive woman in her mid-twenties opened the apartment door.Her pink-blue dress was decorated with silver buttons; she had a full breasts, but a slender figure, with straight shoulders and narrow hips, with a proud air about her.It would be arrogance if placed on a less graceful person. Spade asked, "Mrs. Haven?" She hesitated before speaking, "Yes." "Gene Collier asked me to come see you. My name is Spade, and I'm a private eye. He wants me to find your husband." "did you find it?" "I told him I had to talk to you first." Her smile was gone.She scrutinized every detail of his face and said, "Of course." She took a step back and opened the door. When they sat down in chairs facing each other, she asked, "Did Gene tell you why he wanted to find Eli?" They were in a room with cheap furniture that overlooked the playground below.The little children were making noise there. "He said if you knew he was never coming back, you would follow your sanity." She said nothing. "Has he ever disappeared like this before?" "Often thing." "What kind of person is he?" "He's a cocky man," she said calmly. "That's when he's sober. When he's drunk, he's all right, except for women and money." "Then he's good in many ways. What does he do for a living?" "He's a poet," she replied, "but no one lives by it." "Ok?" "Oh, he gets some money out of the blue every now and then. He says it's from cards and horses, I don't know." "How long have you been married?" "Four years, about the same." He smiled wryly. "Always in San Francisco?" "No, we lived in Seattle the first year and then came here." "He's from Seattle?" She shook her head. "Somewhere in Delaware." "where?" "I have no idea." Spade's dark eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Where are you from?" She said sweetly, "You're not chasing me, are you?" "You seem to be chasing me," he muttered. "Well, what friends does he have?" "do not ask me!" Spade made an impatient grimace. "You know some of his friends?" he persisted. "Of course. There's a guy named Menela, and there's a Louis James, and a guy named Connie." "Who are they?" "Men," she replied softly, "I don't know anything about them. They call him out, or call him. I've seen them hang out in town, too. That's all I know." gone." "What do they live on? They can't all write poetry." she laughed. "They could try. I think one of them, Louise James, was—Gene's employee. I've told you all I know, there really isn't much more." "Do you think they'll know where your husband is?" She shrugged. "If they know, they're playing me. They still call sometimes to ask if he's back." "And what about the women you mentioned?" "I don't know them." Frowning at the floor, Spade asked thoughtfully, "What was he doing before he started writing poetry for a living?" “Does everything—sells vacuum cleaners, has been a vagrant, been a sailor, played blackjack, built railroads, worked in canning shops, logging camps, and carnival companies; worked for a newspaper .everything." "Did he have any money with him when he left?" "He borrowed three dollars from me." "What did he say?" she laughed. "He said that if I could touch God while he was away, he would come back at dinner and surprise me." Spade raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a good relationship?" "Oh yes. We had a fight a few days ago." "When did he leave?" "Thursday afternoon. Three o'clock, I think." "Do you have a picture of him?" "Yes." She walked to a table next to the bed, pulled out a drawer, and returned to Spade with a photo in her hand. Spade saw a man in the picture, a thin face with sunken eyes, sexy lips, a deeply lined forehead, and a matted tuft of flaxen hair. He pocketed Haven's picture and picked up his hat.He turned toward the door, stopped again and asked, "What kind of poet is he? The great kind?" She shrugged. "It depends on who you ask." "Do you have any poems he wrote here?" "No." She smiled, "Do you think he hides between the lines?" "You never know what's going to turn out. I'll come back to you. Think it over and see if you can think of anything else. Goodbye." He walked down Post Street to Mulford Books to buy a copy of Haven's poetry. "Sorry," said the girl in the bookstore, "the last copy was sold last week." She smiled, "to Mr. Haven himself. I can order a copy for you." "You know him?" "Only when selling books." Spade pursed his lips and asked, "What day was that?" He handed over a business card. "Please do me a favor. This is important." She went to the desk, leafed through a red-bordered sales book, and walked back to him with the open book in one hand. "Last Wednesday," she said, "we sent the book to Mr. Roger Ferris's, at 1981 Pacific Avenue." "Thank you very much," he said. He went outside and called a taxi and gave the driver the address of Mr. Roger Ferris...
The house on Pacific Avenue is a four-story gray stone building with a narrow grassy field in front.A plump-faced maid ushered Spade into a high, spacious room. Spade sat down, but when the maid left he got up and started wandering about the room.He stopped at a desk with three books on it.One had a red sketch printed on the orange-red cover of a bolt of lightning striking the ground between a man and a woman.Printed in black on the cover, it reads "Brilliant Light" by Eli Haven. Spade picked up the book and walked back to his chair. The title page bears the author's inscription.The handwriting written in blue ink was irregular and illegible. Spade flipped the pages casually, and lazily read a poem:
A man in a dinner suit entered the room, and Spade looked up from the page.The man was not tall, but his upright frame made him appear as tall as Spade, who was a little over six feet.He had bright blue eyes that hadn't been dulled by his fifties.His tanned face had no loose muscles, his forehead was broad and smooth, and his gray hair was short and thick.His expression was dignified and kind.
He nodded to the book Spade still held in his hand. "How do you like it?"
Spade grinned and said, "I don't think I know anything about it." He put the book down. "But that's why I came to you, Mr. Ferriss. Do you know Haven?"
"Yes, of course. Sit down, Mr. Spade." He settled into a chair not far from Spade. "I've known him since he was a boy. Has he been in trouble? "
"I don't know. I'm looking for him," Spade said.
Ferris said hesitantly, "May I ask why?"
"Did you know Gene Collier?"
"Yes." Ferriss hesitated again, then said, "Privately. I own a chain of movie theaters in Northern California, you know, and I had a labor dispute a few years ago. I was told that I could go to the Lear, he can solve troubles. I just met him by chance."
"Well." Spade said dryly, "A lot of people meet Gene by chance like this."
"But what does he have to do with Eli?"
"He wanted me to find Eli. When was the last time you saw Eli?"
"He came to my house last Thursday."
"What time did you leave?"
"Midnight, or later. He came about three o'clock in the afternoon. We hadn't seen each other for many years, and I persuaded him to stay for dinner. I saw him in rags, and lent him some money."
"How much?"
"One hundred and fifty dollars. That's all the cash in the house."
"Did he say where he was going when he left?"
Ferris shook his head. "He said he would call me the next day."
"Did he fight the next day?"
"No."
"You have known him since he was a child?"
"Not really. He worked for me fifteen or sixteen years ago. I started a carnival company - East-West. First with a partner. Then I went it alone. I've always loved that. child."
"How many years did you see him before you saw him on Thursday?"
"God knows," said Ferris, "I lost touch with him a long time ago. Then, on a fine Wednesday, the book arrived in the mail, with no address or anything else written on it except the title page. Anyway, he called the next day. I was dying to know he was alive and making a living. So he came over that afternoon and we spent nine hours talking about the old days."
"He told you a lot about what he did after the separation?"
"He just said he hangs around, does this and that, and rests when there's nothing to do. He doesn't complain too much; I had to figure out how to get him to take the $150."
Spade stood up. "Thank you very much, Mr. Ferriss. I—"
Ferris interrupted him: "You're welcome. If there's anything I can do to help, just give me a call."
Spade looked at his watch. "Can I make a phone call to my office here and see if there's any progress?"
"Of course. There's a telephone in the next room, the one on the right."
Spade said thanks and went out.When he came back, he had a cigarette rolled in his hand and his face was expressionless.
"Any news?" Ferris asked.
"Yes. Collier called to cancel this commission. He said that Haven's body was found in the bushes on the other side of San Jose and shot three times." He smiled and added tactfully, "He Tell me he might be able to find a connection and get some information."
A diminutive woman in her mid-twenties opened the apartment door.Her pink-blue dress was decorated with silver buttons; she had a full breasts, but a slender figure, with straight shoulders and narrow hips, with a proud air about her.It would be arrogance if placed on a less graceful person. Spade asked, "Mrs. Haven?" She hesitated before speaking, "Yes." "Gene Collier asked me to come see you. My name is Spade, and I'm a private eye. He wants me to find your husband." "did you find it?" "I told him I had to talk to you first." Her smile was gone.She scrutinized every detail of his face and said, "Of course." She took a step back and opened the door. When they sat down in chairs facing each other, she asked, "Did Gene tell you why he wanted to find Eli?" They were in a room with cheap furniture that overlooked the playground below.The little children were making noise there. "He said if you knew he was never coming back, you would follow your sanity." She said nothing. "Has he ever disappeared like this before?" "Often thing." "What kind of person is he?" "He's a cocky man," she said calmly. "That's when he's sober. When he's drunk, he's all right, except for women and money." "Then he's good in many ways. What does he do for a living?" "He's a poet," she replied, "but no one lives by it." "Ok?" "Oh, he gets some money out of the blue every now and then. He says it's from cards and horses, I don't know." "How long have you been married?" "Four years, about the same." He smiled wryly. "Always in San Francisco?" "No, we lived in Seattle the first year and then came here." "He's from Seattle?" She shook her head. "Somewhere in Delaware." "where?" "I have no idea." Spade's dark eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Where are you from?" She said sweetly, "You're not chasing me, are you?" "You seem to be chasing me," he muttered. "Well, what friends does he have?" "do not ask me!" Spade made an impatient grimace. "You know some of his friends?" he persisted. "Of course. There's a guy named Menela, and there's a Louis James, and a guy named Connie." "Who are they?" "Men," she replied softly, "I don't know anything about them. They call him out, or call him. I've seen them hang out in town, too. That's all I know." gone." "What do they live on? They can't all write poetry." she laughed. "They could try. I think one of them, Louise James, was—Gene's employee. I've told you all I know, there really isn't much more." "Do you think they'll know where your husband is?" She shrugged. "If they know, they're playing me. They still call sometimes to ask if he's back." "And what about the women you mentioned?" "I don't know them." Frowning at the floor, Spade asked thoughtfully, "What was he doing before he started writing poetry for a living?" “Does everything—sells vacuum cleaners, has been a vagrant, been a sailor, played blackjack, built railroads, worked in canning shops, logging camps, and carnival companies; worked for a newspaper .everything." "Did he have any money with him when he left?" "He borrowed three dollars from me." "What did he say?" she laughed. "He said that if I could touch God while he was away, he would come back at dinner and surprise me." Spade raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a good relationship?" "Oh yes. We had a fight a few days ago." "When did he leave?" "Thursday afternoon. Three o'clock, I think." "Do you have a picture of him?" "Yes." She walked to a table next to the bed, pulled out a drawer, and returned to Spade with a photo in her hand. Spade saw a man in the picture, a thin face with sunken eyes, sexy lips, a deeply lined forehead, and a matted tuft of flaxen hair. He pocketed Haven's picture and picked up his hat.He turned toward the door, stopped again and asked, "What kind of poet is he? The great kind?" She shrugged. "It depends on who you ask." "Do you have any poems he wrote here?" "No." She smiled, "Do you think he hides between the lines?" "You never know what's going to turn out. I'll come back to you. Think it over and see if you can think of anything else. Goodbye." He walked down Post Street to Mulford Books to buy a copy of Haven's poetry. "Sorry," said the girl in the bookstore, "the last copy was sold last week." She smiled, "to Mr. Haven himself. I can order a copy for you." "You know him?" "Only when selling books." Spade pursed his lips and asked, "What day was that?" He handed over a business card. "Please do me a favor. This is important." She went to the desk, leafed through a red-bordered sales book, and walked back to him with the open book in one hand. "Last Wednesday," she said, "we sent the book to Mr. Roger Ferris's, at 1981 Pacific Avenue." "Thank you very much," he said. He went outside and called a taxi and gave the driver the address of Mr. Roger Ferris...
The house on Pacific Avenue is a four-story gray stone building with a narrow grassy field in front.A plump-faced maid ushered Spade into a high, spacious room. Spade sat down, but when the maid left he got up and started wandering about the room.He stopped at a desk with three books on it.One had a red sketch printed on the orange-red cover of a bolt of lightning striking the ground between a man and a woman.Printed in black on the cover, it reads "Brilliant Light" by Eli Haven. Spade picked up the book and walked back to his chair. The title page bears the author's inscription.The handwriting written in blue ink was irregular and illegible. Spade flipped the pages casually, and lazily read a poem:
The morning sun shone through the curtains that covered Spade's office windows, leaving two fat yellow rectangles on the floor.The whole room was stained with a faint yellow. He sat behind his desk, gazing thoughtfully at a newspaper.Nor did he look up when Effie Palin came in from the outer office. "Here comes Mrs. Haven," she said. He looked up, and said, "Very well. Ask her to come in." Mrs. Haven came in quickly.She was pale, and even in the fur and the warmth, she shivered.She went straight up to Spade and asked, "Did Gene kill him?" "I don't know," Spade said. "I must know," she cried. Spade took her hand. "Come on, sit down." He led her to sit on a chair. He asked, "Did Collier tell you he canceled this commission?" She stared at him in astonishment. "His what?" "He left me a message last night saying your husband has been found and he doesn't need me anymore." She lowered her head, and her voice was weak, barely audible. "Then he did it." Spade shrugged. "Perhaps only innocent people are qualified to cancel this commission; or, perhaps he is guilty, but he has enough brains and enough impulsiveness-" She didn't listen to him.Leaning towards him, she said eagerly, "But, Mr. Spade, you won't just give up, will you? You won't let him stop you, will you?" As she spoke, Spade's phone rang. He said "Sorry" and picked up the phone. "Hello?...Uh...so?" He pursed his lips. "I'll let you know if I have any news." He slowly put the phone aside and faced Mrs. Haven again. "Collier is outside." "Does he know I'm coming?" she asked quickly. "It's hard to say." He stood up, pretending not to look at her carefully, "Do you mind?" She bit her lower lip lightly and said, "No." She hesitated. "Okay. I'll let him in." She raised a hand as if to protest, but dropped it again.Her pale face calmed down, and she said, "Please go ahead." Spade opened the door and said, "Hello, Collier, come in. We're talking about you." Collier nodded and walked into the office with his cane in one hand and his hat in the other. "How's this morning, Julia? You should call me. I can drive you back to town." "I—I don't know what I've done." Collier looked at her for another moment, then turned his emotionless green eyes to Spade's face. "Well, have you succeeded in convincing her that I didn't?" "We haven't gotten there yet," Spade said. "I'm trying to see why I should suspect you. Sit down." Collier sat down cautiously, and asked, "Then?" "And then there you are." Collier nodded gravely. "Very well, Spade," said he, "you are employed again, and you will prove to Mrs. Haven that I have nothing to do with it." "Jean!" she choked out, holding out her hands pleadingly, "I didn't think you did it—I didn't intend to—but I was worried." She put her hands over her face and began to cry . Collier walked over to the woman. "Don't worry," he said, "we'll figure it out together." Spade went into the outer office and closed the door behind him. Effie Palin is typing a letter.She stopped what she was doing.He grinned at her and said, "Someone should write a book about human nature—sometimes they're weird." Then he walked over to the water bottle, "You have Wally Kellogg's number. Call him and ask." Where can I find Tom Menera." He went back to the inner office. Mrs. Haven had stopped crying."I'm sorry," she said. Spade said, "It's okay." He looked at Collier next to him, "Is my commission still there?" "Yes." Collier cleared his throat. "But if there's nothing special going on right now, I'd better take Mrs. Haven home." "No problem. But here's something I want to ask: Chronologically, you were the one who recognized his body. How did you get there?" "I heard they found a body, so I went," Collier said slowly and carefully. "I told you I had connections with the police. I heard about the body from them." "Okay, see you later," Spade said, and he opened the door for them. As the aisle door closed behind them, Effie Palin said, "Meneira's in Buxton, Army Street." "Thanks," Spade said, and he went into the inner office to get his hat.On his way out he said, "If I don't come back for two months, let them find my body there."
Spade walked down the battered corridor to a crooked green door."411" was written on the door.There were whispers from inside the door, but not a word could be heard.He stopped listening and raised his hand to knock on the door. An obviously disguised male voice asked, "What's the matter?" "I want to see Tom. I'm Sam Spade." There was a silence in the room, and then someone said, "Tom isn't here." Spade took hold of the doorknob with one hand, shaking the flimsy panel. "Come on, open the door!" he growled in a low voice. After a while, a thin, dark man in his mid-twenties opened the door.He tried not to look sly in his bright little eyes as he spoke. "I didn't recognize your voice at first." The slack mouth made his jaw appear smaller.His open-necked green-striped shirt was dirty, and his gray trousers were carefully pressed down. "You've been careful lately," Spade said gravely, walking across the hall into a room.The two men in the room were trying to appear indifferent.One of the men was leaning against the window, still filing his fingernails.The other man was sprawled in his chair, with his feet on the edge of the table and a newspaper open in his hand.They all glanced at Spade and went on with their business. Spade said cheerfully: "It's always a pleasure to see Tom Menera's friends." Menela had closed the door and said awkwardly: "Er—yes—Mr. Spade. This is Mr. Conrad and Mr. James." Conrad was the man leaning against the window.He held the nail file in one hand and made a roughly polite gesture.A few years younger than Menela, he was of average height and solidly built; his face was sharp and his eyes were dull and lifeless. James put the paper down for a moment, looked at Spade coldly and judged, and said, "Hello, brother." Then he went on to read the paper.He was as strong as Conrad, but taller, and there was a shrewdness in his face that Conrad lacked. "Ah," said Spade, "I'm glad to meet the friend of Eli Haven who died recently." The nail file jabbed at the finger, and the man by the window cursed violently.Menela licked her lips, and then said quickly, with a note of wailing, "But to be honest, Spade, we haven't seen him in a week." The dark man's reaction seemed to please Spade a little. "Why do you think he was killed?" "All I know is that it's in the papers: His pockets have been ransacked, and he has nothing on him to identify him." The corners of his mouth drooped, "But as far as I know, he has no money on him. Tuesday night's Since then, he has no money." Spade said mildly, "I hear he got a little money Thursday night." Menela gasped behind Spade. James said: "I think you should know. I don't know." "Has he worked with any of you?" James slowly put the newspaper aside and took his feet off the table.He seemed interested in Spade's questions, but coldly. "What do you mean by that?" Spade feigned surprise. "You have to do something, don't you?" Menela ran to Spade. "Ah, look, Spade," he said, "this fellow Haven was just a guy we knew. We had nothing to do with the murder; we didn't know about it. You know, we—" There were three unhurried knocks on the door.Menela and Conrad looked at James.James nodded, but by this time Spade had quickly come to the door and opened it.Roger Ferris was standing at the door. Spade winked at Ferris, and Ferris winked at him.Then Ferris held out his hand and said, "Nice to meet you." "Come in," Spade said. "Look at this, Mr. Spade." With trembling hands, Ferris took out a somewhat dirty envelope from his pocket.The envelope had Ferris's name and address typed on it, and there was no postage stamp on it.Spade took out the letter inside.It was a long, narrow strip of cheap white paper folded. Spade unfolded it, and on it was the words typed out by a typewriter: Not signed. "It's a long time until five o'clock," Spade said. "Yes," Ferris agreed. "I'll be here as soon as I get the letter. Eli's at my house on Thursday night." Menela pushed Spade and asked, "What's going on here?" Spade held the note to the dark man and read it to him.When he had finished, he exclaimed, "It's true, Spade, I don't know anything about this letter." "Anyone know?" Spade asked. Conrad said hastily, "I don't know." James said, "What letter?" Spade looked at Ferris absently, and after a while he spoke, as if to himself: "Of course, Haven is trying to blackmail you." Ferris blushed: "What?" "Blackmail." Spade repeated patiently. "Money, blackmail." "Listen, Spade," said Ferris seriously. "You don't mean it, do you? What can he do to blackmail me?" "To dear old Buck," Spade quoted the dead poet's title-page inscription, "he knows the colorful light of those days in memory." His brows lifted slightly, his eyes darkened at Ferris, "what Brilliant lights? In circuses and carnivals, what is the slang term for kicking a man off a moving train? Turn on a red light. That's it, no doubt—a red light. Haven got it, Ferris?" Menela went to the chair and sat down, her elbows on her knees, her head between her hands, and she stared blankly at the floor.Conrad was breathing rapidly, as if he were running. Spade asked Ferris, "How?" Ferris wiped his face with a handkerchief, put it in his pocket, and said simply, "That's blackmail." "And then you killed him." Ferris's blue eyes looked into Spade's sallow eyes, as clear and firm as his voice. "I didn't," he said, "I swear I didn't. Let me tell you what happened. As I told you, he sent me the book, and I understood right away what he wrote on the title page. What did those words mean. So the next day he called me and said he was coming to talk to me about the old days, and he wanted to borrow some money from me for those days. I knew what he was up to. I went Go to the bank and withdraw $10,000. You can look it up, it's Sailors National Bank." "I will," Spade said. "And the truth is, I didn't use that much money. He didn't have that much appetite. I let him take the five thousand dollars. I deposited the remaining five thousand dollars back in the bank the next day. You can check it too." "I will," Spade said. "I told him I wouldn't tolerate any more blackmail and that the $5,000 was the first and the last. I got him to sign a document declaring that he had done a favor — after I had He also helped with that - and he signed it. He left around midnight and that was the last time I saw him." Spade tapped the envelope Ferris had given him. "So what's with this note?" "A delivery boy gave it to me at noon, and I came over right away. Eli assured me he hadn't told anyone about it, but I don't know if it's true. I've got to deal with it, whatever what's going on." Spade turned to the others with a blank look on his face: "What about you?" Menela and Conrad looked at James, who made an impatient look, and said, "Oh, of course, we sent him the letter. Why not? We're Eli's friends, from him Started crushing this darling, and we couldn't find him. Then he died, so we called this gentleman up here to explain." "You know about the blackmail?" "Of course. We were together when he came up with the idea." "How did he think that?" Spade asked. James spread the fingers of his left hand. "We've been drinking and talking—you know what a group of guys do when they're together, talking about things they've seen and done. He told an anecdote that he once saw a guy kick another guy off a train. He happened to mention the name of the guy who kicked the guy—a young man named Ferris. Someone said: 'What does this Ferris look like?' Eli told him, and said he was fifteen Haven't seen this guy in years. I don't know who blew the whistle and said, 'I bet you're talking about Ferris who owns half the movie theaters in the state. Row.' "Well, Eli's eyes lit up at the idea. You can think of it. He thought about it for a moment, then asked slyly what the name of this Ferris who opened the theater. Someone told him it was 'Roger' and he feigned disappointment, and said 'No, it wasn't him. The man I was talking about was Martin.' We all laughed at him, and he finally had to admit that he was going to see the gentleman. At noon on Thursday he Call me up and say he's throwing a party that night at Porgy Heck's. Wouldn't it be pretty obvious what happened then?" "What's the name of the gentleman whose red light was turned on?" "He didn't say it. He was tight-lipped. You can't blame him for that." "Aha," Spade agreed. "And then it was gone. He never came to Porgy. We tried calling him around two o'clock in the morning, but his wife said he wasn't home. So we waited around Porgy until four or five o'clock, and then we made sure he was released. We pigeons. We made the tavern send him the bill, and off we went. I haven't seen him since—nor dead or alive." Spade said mildly, "Maybe. Of course you didn't find him later that morning, didn't bother with him, didn't exchange bullets for Ferris' five thousand dollars, didn't drop him in-- " There were two rapid knocks on the door. Spade's face lit up.He went to the door and opened it. A young man walks in.He was neat and handsome, quick in movement, and well proportioned.He was wearing a light-colored thin overcoat with his hands in his pockets, walked to the right as soon as he entered the door, and stood with his back against the wall.Another young man enters, he walks to the left.Although they don't really look alike, they're all so quick, well-groomed, and in almost the same poses—both with their backs against the wall, their hands in their pockets, and their cold, bright eyes scrutinizing the people in the room. — which makes them look like twins at first glance. Then Gene Collier came in.He nodded to Spade, but didn't greet anyone else in the room, despite James saying "Hi, Gene." "Any progress?" Collier asked Spade. Spade nodded. "It seems that this gentleman—" He pointed his thumb sharply at Ferris, "he—" "Is there room here for us to speak?" "There's a kitchen in the back." Collier glanced over his shoulder and gave the two neat and handsome young men a quick wink—if anyone popped up, knock him down.Then he followed Spade into the kitchen.He sat in a chair in the kitchen, his green eyes fixed on Spade, who was recounting what he had learned. After the private detective finished speaking, the green-eyed man asked, "Well, what conclusion did you come to?" Spade looked at each other thoughtfully. "You know something. I want to know what it is." "They found the gun in a river a quarter of a mile away from where the body was found," Collier said. "It was James' gun. He had a record of the last time he shot in Valeno. " "Very well," Spade said. "Listen. A little guy named Thurber said James found him last Wednesday and asked him to follow Haven. Thurber had his eye on him Thursday afternoon and saw him go into the Ferriss' house and called James. James Put him down there and wait to tell where Haven went when he left, but a nervous woman in the area noticed the little fellow hanging around, and the police came and got him around ten o'clock." Spade pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Collier's eyes were impassive, but his round face glistened with sweat; his voice was hoarse. "Speed," he said, "I'm going to hand him over to the police." Spade looked from the ceiling to the bulging green eyes. "I've never turned my guy over to the police before," Collier said, "but this time I will. If my guy did it and I put him in jail, Julia will believe me It has nothing to do with it, does it?" Spade nodded slowly: "I think so too." Collier suddenly averted his eyes and cleared his throat.When he spoke again, his words were very brief: "Okay, he will go to jail." When Spade and Collier came out of the kitchen, Menela, James, and Conrad were still sitting there.Ferris walked up and down the floor.Those two neat and handsome young men hadn't moved. Collier walks over to James. "Where's your gun, Louis?" he asked. James moved his right hand a few inches toward his left chest, then stopped, saying, "Oh, I didn't have it with me." 科利尔戴着手套的手一拳揍上詹姆斯的半边脸，把他从椅子上打飞出去。 James straightened up and said vaguely, "I didn't say anything." He put a hand on the side of his face that was hit, "I know I shouldn't do it, boss, but he called and said he didn't want to Go to Ferris with nothing, and he'll have no leverage himself. I said, 'Okay.' So I gave him my gun." Collier said, "And you got Thurber to follow him." "We were just curious to see what he was up to," James muttered. "And you couldn't have gone there yourself. Who else did you send?" "After Thurber made the noise?" Collier turned to Spade. "Do you need us to escort them, or do you want the police?" "We'll play by the rules," Spade said, and walked over to the phone by the wall.When he left the phone, his face was blank and his eyes were ambiguous.He took out a cigarette, lit it, and said to Collier, "I'd be a fool if I believed your Louis could make him a story." James took his hand off his bruised cheek and fixed his eyes on Spade in surprise.Collier growled, "What do you mean?" "It's okay." Spade said softly, "I just think you're too eager to blame him for this." He took a puff of smoke, "For example, why did he leave a handful that everyone recognizes? where's the gun?" Collier said, "You think he has brains?" "If these guys killed Haven and knew he was dead, why did they wait until the body was found and things went wrong before they bothered Ferris again? If they robbed Haven, why did they take his口袋都翻出来呢？这太费事了，只有为了其他原因杀死他，而又希望让他的死看起来像是抢劫案的人才会这么做。”他摇摇头，“你太急着把这事归罪于他们了。他们为什么要——” “那不是现在的重点。”科利尔说道，“重点是，为什么你一直说我急着这么做？” 斯佩德耸耸肩：“也许是为了在茱莉亚面前尽快澄清你自己，也许是在警察面前把自己撇干净，然后你就有顾客了。” 科利尔说：“什么？” 斯佩德拿着烟随便做了个手势。“费里斯。”他温和地说道，“他杀了黑文，肯定是他。” 科利尔的眼睑颤抖了，尽管他并没有眨眼。 斯佩德说：“首先，他是我们所知最后一个见过活着的伊莱的人，而推测这种人是凶手总是很正确的。第二，伊莱的尸体出现之前，和我谈过话的人当中，唯有他关心我是不是觉得他对我有所隐瞒。你们其他人只觉得我在找一个失踪的人。他知道我在找一个他杀死的人，所以他得撇清他自己。他甚至不敢扔掉那本书，因为书是从书店寄来的，别人会发现这一点，而且，也许书店的店员读到过那句题词。第三，他是唯一认为伊莱温柔体贴干净又可爱的人——这出于相同的理由。第四，他说敲诈者下午三点来，很轻松就拿到了五千美金，然后把钱攥在手里直到半夜才走——这故事很傻，就算是喝了太多酒，这行为也太蠢了。第五，他说伊莱签了文件，这说法还是很糟糕，因为伪造的文件很容易就能被查出来。第六，他在我们所知的所有人当中有最充分的理由希望伊莱死去。” 科利尔缓缓点头：“但是——” “没有但是。”斯佩德说道，“也许他跟银行玩了取出一万存回去五千的把戏，但是那很容易做到。然后他把那个低能的勒索者叫到他家里，把他留到用人们都去睡觉了，然后从他身上拿走他借来的那把枪，硬把他推下楼塞进自己的车子里，带他出去兜风——也许那时候勒索者已经死了，也许他是到了树林里才开的枪——再把他身上的东西搜刮干净，好让别人不那么容易断定他的身份，还让这事儿看起来像是抢劫。接着他把枪扔进水里，就回家了——” 街上响起了一声警笛，斯佩德停下来侧耳倾听，然后从他说话开始第一次看向了费里斯。 费里斯脸色苍白得可怕，但是双眸仍旧很坚定。 斯佩德说道：“我有种直觉，费里斯，我们很快也能发现开红灯一事的真相了。你告诉我你开过个一家嘉年华公司，起初你跟别人合伙了一阵子，那时候伊莱还在为你工作，之后你就自己单干了。我们不会怕麻烦的，我们会找到你的合伙人——不管他是消失了，还是自然死亡，或是还活着。” 费里斯失去了挺直身体的力气。他舔舔嘴唇，说道：“我要见我的律师。在我见到律师之前，我不会开口。” 斯佩德说道：“我无所谓。你有麻烦了，但是我自己也不喜欢敲诈勒索的人。我想伊莱在那本书里为这些人写下了很好的墓志铭——'太多的人曾经活过'。”