Chapter 4 Chapter 2 Murder in the Fog
The phone rang in the darkness, and it took three rings before the mattress springs creaked.Fingers fumbled on the wood, a small hard object fell with a thud on the carpeted floor, and the springs creaked again.A man's voice speaks:
"Hey...yes, you say...dead?...uh...fifteen minutes. Thank you."
With the click of a switch, a blue and white bowl-shaped chandelier in the center of the ceiling, suspended from three gold-plated chains, illuminated the room.Spade sat barefoot on the edge of the bed in his green and white checked pajamas.He looked sullenly at the phone on the table, and picked up a knife of brown rolling papers and a bag of Bull's Head tobacco from beside the phone.
Cold, steamy air blew in through the two open windows.There came the foghorn from above.The trumpets sounded monotonously six times a minute.A small alarm clock rested on the corner of a copy of Duke's "Notable American Crimes";
Spade rolled his cigarette calmly and carefully with his ten thick fingers.He picked out a pinch of brown tobacco and put it on the rolled paper. He spread the tobacco evenly on both ends, with the middle slightly sunken. He rolled it out from the inner edge of the paper with two thumbs, and twisted the outer layer with his index finger. Tight, the thumb and other fingers slid to both ends of the cigarette to hold it, the tongue immediately licked the edge of the paper, the index finger and thumb of the left hand clamped the cigarette butt, and the index finger and thumb of the right hand smoothed the wet seam, As soon as he twisted the cigarette butt, he stuffed the other end into his mouth.
He picked up the pigskin-covered nickel-shell lighter that fell on the ground, pressed it, and stood up with a lighted cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.He took off his pajamas, his arms, legs and body were bare, thick and powerful, his shapely broad shoulders slumped down, and he looked like a bear's body; like a shaved bear: he had no hair on his chest , the skin is soft and pink like a child's.
Spade scratched the back of his neck and began to dress.He put on a thin white jumpsuit, gray socks, black garters, and dark brown leather shoes.After tying his shoelaces, he grabbed the phone, dialed the number 4500, and asked for a taxi.Then he put on a shirt with green stripes on a white background, a white soft collar, a green tie, and the gray jacket he wore during the day, a large duffel coat, and a dark gray hat.Just as he was hastily stuffing tobacco, keys, and money into his pockets, the doorbell rang.
It's a mountain road, a section of the road is just covered, and then leads to Chinatown down the mountain.It was at this intersection that Spade paid his fare and got out of the car.The night fog in San Francisco is light, sticky and cold.Everything in the street is blurred.A few steps from where Spade had dropped off, a group of people had gathered, looking down an alley.A man and two women stood on the other side of Bush Street, also looking into the alley, and there were people looking out of the windows.
Those windows with iron railings are opened at the height of the ugly mountain steps.Spade crossed the sidewalk lined with windows to the buttress, and, resting his hand on the wet top, looked down at Stockton Street down the hill.
A car suddenly appeared from the tunnel below. The motor rumbled, whizzed past, and drove away like a gust of wind.Not far from the tunnel entrance, a man was squatting in front of a movie billboard.A gas pipe runs across the open space between the two shops.The squatting man bent his head almost to the sidewalk to look under the billboard.He propped himself on the ground with one hand, and grasped the green frame of the billboard with the other, maintaining a strange posture.The other two stood awkwardly together on the far side of the billboard, poking their heads into the few inches between the billboard and a house on the other side, with a bare gray side wall behind the billboard. place.The lights dangled on the wall, and the figures flickered in the lights.
Spade turned away from the parapet and walked down Bush Street toward the alley where the crowds gathered.A uniformed policeman, chewing gum, stood under an enamel street sign with blue lettering on a white background, stopped him with an arm outstretched, and asked, "What are you doing here?"
"I'm Sam Spade. Tom Polrows is calling me."
"It really is you," said the policeman, lowering his arms. "I didn't recognize you just now. Well, they're in the back." He pointed his thumb behind his shoulder. "Things are terrible."
"Terrible," agreed Spade, walking down the alley.
Not far from the entrance of the alley, a black ambulance was parked halfway.Behind the ambulance, to the left of the alley, there is a waist-high fence.It was built with rough horizontal wooden strips.The dark ground in front of the fence fell steeply down to the Billboard on Stockton Street below.
A ten-foot-long pole was uprooted from the top of the fence and dangled dangling from a neighboring pole.Fifteen feet down the slope rose a large flat boulder.Miles Archer lay on his back in the hollow between the boulder and the slope.Two people were watching him closely.A man shines a flashlight on the dead man.Another took a flashlight up and down the slope to keep an eye on it.
Someone greeted Sam, "Hi, Sam," and climbed up into the alley.The figure was running up the ramp ahead of him.He is a tall man with a big belly.A pair of quick-witted small eyes, thick lips, and unshaven stubble on both cheeks.His shoes, knees, hands and chin were all soiled with yellow mud.
"I guess you'd like to see him before we take him away," he said, stepping over the fence.
"Thanks, Tom," said Spade. "What's the matter?" He rested his elbows on the fence posts and looked down at the people, nodding to those who greeted him.
Tom Polrows poked his left breast with a dirty finger. "Just right through the heart--use this." He took a large revolver from his coat pocket and held it to Sam.The grooves of the gun body were filled with mud. "It's a Webbery, made in England, isn't it?"
Spade dropped off the fence on his elbow and leaned over to look at the gun without touching it.
"Yes, the Chipley-Sbury automatic revolver, yes. 38 caliber, eight rounds, and production has ceased now. How many rounds has this gun fired?"
"One shot." Tom poked himself in the chest again. "He must have been dead when the fence broke." He held up the mud-stained pistol. "Have you seen this?"
Spade nodded and said uninterestedly, "I've seen a lot of Weber-Sbury pistols," and then he went on, "He got shot here, eh? In your place, with your back against the fence, here's the shooter." He went and stood in front of Tom, one hand raised to his chest, index finger aimed. "After the hit, Miles stepped back, climbed over the fence, and rolled down until he was blocked by a rock. Is that the case?"
"That's the way it is," replied Tom slowly, frowning. "The bullet scorched his coat."
"Who found him?"
"The man on patrol, Sirin, was coming from the other end of Bush Street. Just as he got here, a car turned the corner and turned on its headlights to illuminate the place. He saw that the top of the fence was broken, and he came over to have a look, and found killed him."
"What happened to the car that turned the corner?"
"It's nothing, Sam. Cillin didn't pay attention to the car at all. He didn't know what happened at the time. He said he came from the road, and he didn't meet anyone going from this way on the road, and he would have seen it if there was any. Knows the only way out is under the billboard on Stockton Street. No one walks like that. The fog has made the ground so warm that there are only two marks on the ground, one where Miles slid all the way down the place where the gun was dropped."
"Did no one hear the gunfire?"
"Oh, God, Sam, we just got here, too. Somebody's gotta hear the gunshot, till we find it." He turned and put one leg over the fence. "Would you like to go down and have a look before he is transported away?"
Spade said, "No need."
Tom just stepped over the fence and stopped again. Looking back, a pair of small eyes looked at Spade in surprise.
"You've seen him, you've seen everything I can see," Spade said.
Still looking at Spade, Tom nodded suspiciously and drew his leg back from the fence.
He said, "His unused gun in the back of his ass, and his overcoat buttoned up well. There's a hundred and sixty-five dollars in his pocket. Is he on a mission, Sam?"
Spade hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
Tom asked, "Oh?"
"He was supposed to be stalking a guy named Floyd Thursby," Spade said.Then he described Thursby's appearance as Miss Wendley said.
"why?"
Spade thrust his hands into his coat pockets and gave Tom a wink of sleepy eyes.
Tom asked again impatiently, "Why?"
"He might be an Englishman. I don't know what the hell he's up to. We're trying to find out where he lives." Spade grinned, and took a hand from his pocket to pat Tom on the shoulder. "Don't force me." He put his hands in his pockets again. "I'm going to tell Miles' wife the news." Then he turned and left.
Tom frowned, opened his mouth, and closed it again without saying anything.He cleared his throat and stopped frowning.His voice was hoarse, showing a bit of gentleness, and said:
"It's unlucky what happened to him. Miles has his faults like the rest of us, but I think he's got some good things too."
"I think so too." Spade echoed, his voice was hollow, and he walked out of the alley.
From an all-night pharmacy on Bush Street and the intersection, Spade borrowed a phone call.
He gave a number and said after a while, "Honey, Miles got shot... Yes, he died... Don't get excited... Yeah, you gotta tell Eva... No Well, I'm not going. You have to do it... That's a good girl... Don't let her come to the office... Tell her, I'll see her... Well, another day... Yeah, don't put me Getting involved with something... that's all. You're an angel. Goodbye."
Spade turned on the chandelier again, just as the small alarm clock was reading three-forty.He threw his hat and coat on the bed and went into the kitchen.Came out with a glass and a decanter of bacardi.He poured a glass and drank it while standing there.He put the wine bottle and glasses on the table, sat on the edge of the bed and watched, rolling a cigarette.When the doorbell rang, he had already finished three glasses of wine and was about to light his fifth cigarette.The alarm clock pointed to four thirty.
Spade sighed, got up from the bed, and went to the telephone box by the bathroom door.He pressed the button and opened the door.He muttered, "Damn her." He stood looking at the black telephone box with a sad face, panting, his face flushed faintly.
There was the sound of the elevator door opening and closing in the corridor.Spade sighed again, and walked straight to the corridor door.There was the sound of light, vigorous footsteps on the carpeted floor of the corridor outside.This is the footsteps of two men.Spade's face brightened, and the troubled look in his eyes disappeared.He opened the door immediately.
"Hi, Tom," he said to the tall, pot-bellied detective who had just spoken on Britt Street; and to the man next to him, "Hello, Sergeant, come in."
They nodded together and walked in without saying a word.Spade closed the door and led them into the bedroom.Tom sat at the head of the sofa by the window.The police officer sat in a chair by the table.
The officer was a stocky man with a round head and gray hair cut short.A square face with a short gray beard.There was a gold five-dollar pin in the tie, and a small secret society badge studded with delicate diamonds pinned to the collar of the suit.
Spade brought two wine glasses from the kitchen, poured bacardi for everyone, handed each guest a glass, and sat down by the bed with the glasses.His face was calm, showing no surprise at all.He raised his glass and said, "Cheers to the successful solution of the case." Then he drank it down.
Tom finished his drink, put the glass on the floor at his feet, and wiped his mouth with a muddy forefinger.He stared at the foot of the bed, as if the foot of the bed had vaguely reminded him of something, and he was desperately thinking about it right now.
The officer looked at the glass for a moment, took a sip, and put the glass back on the table beside him.His hard eyes looked unhurriedly around the room, then at Tom.
Tom moved uncomfortably on the sofa without raising his head, and asked, "Sam, have you told Mrs. Miles about this?"
Spade said, "Yeah."
"What does she think?"
Spade shook his head. "I don't know about girls."
Tom said softly, "You'll be damned if you don't know."
The officer put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.The pale green eyes had a particularly stern expression, fixed on Spade as if he were looking at some kind of machine that could only be removed by pulling a lever and pressing a button.
"What kind of gun do you have with you?" he asked.
"None. I don't like guns much. Of course I have a few in my office."
"I want to see your gun," said the sergeant. "Maybe you just happen to have one here?"
"No."
"Are you sure not?"
"Look around." Spade smiled, waving his empty glass. "You can take this junk place to the ground if you want, as long as you can produce a search warrant—I won't complain."
Tom protested, "Oh, Sam, hell!"
Spade put the glass on the table and stood up to face the officer:
"What do you want, Dundee?" he asked in a tone as fierce and cold as his eyes.
Officer Dundee rolled his eyes, but his gaze still fell on Spade.Only the eyeballs moved.
Tom moved again on the sofa.With a long breath out of his nose, he grumbled sadly, "We don't want any trouble, Sam."
Spade ignored Tom, and said to Dundee, "Well, what are you going to do? Tell me straight up. How old are you that you want to come here and tie me up?"
Dundee whispered, "Okay, sit down and listen."
"I sit when I like, and stand when I like, it's none of your business," Spade said without moving.
Tom pleaded: "For God's sake, be reasonable. What's the use of us all having a fight? If you know why we don't talk well, it's because I asked you who this Thursby was at first, You say that's none of my business. You shouldn't be doing it to us, Sam. It's not right, and it's not doing you any good. We've got our business to do."
Inspector Dundee jumped to his feet and stood before Sam, putting his square face next to the face of the taller man.
"I've warned you, you're going to fall someday," he said.
Spade curled his mouth and raised his eyebrows: "Everyone has a time to wrestle." Although his tone of reply was mild, it was mocking.
"Now it's about you."
Spade smiled and shook his head. "No, I'll be careful. Thank you." He stopped smiling.The left corner of the upper lip twitched, exposing the upper fangs.His eyes narrowed, looking agitated.The voice is also as deep as a police officer. "I don't like this kind of thing. What are you guys going around here for? If you want to talk, talk, if you don't talk, get out and let me sleep."
"Who is Thursby?" Dundee demanded.
"I've told Tom all I know about him."
"That's all you told Tom."
"That's all I know."
"Why are you following him?"
"I didn't go, Miles did—the reason, just because we have a client who pays us a lot of dollars to follow him."
"Who is this client?"
Spade's face and voice grew calm again.He blamed and said: "You know that I haven't talked with the client, so you can't tell you this matter."
"You either tell me or you go to court," said Dundee irritably. "Don't you forget it's a murder."
"That's not true. Boy, don't you forget right now. I say what I want to say, or I don't say it. It's up to me. I cry because the police don't like me. Those days are long gone. .”
Tom got off the sofa and sat down at the foot of the bed.His stubbled, mud-stained face looked tired and lined.
"Sam, you've got to be right," he begged. "Give us a chance. If you have the material in your hands and don't tell us, how can we solve the case of Miles' murder?"
Spade said to him, "You don't have to worry about it. I'll bury my men when they're dead."
Inspector Dundee sat down and put his hands on his lap again, his green eyes wide as two steaming plates.
"I expected you to," he said, smiling with relentless contentment. "That's why we came to you, isn't it, Tom?"
Tom snorted and said nothing.
Spade watched Dundee warily.
The officer went on: "That's what I said to Tom just now. I said, 'Tom, I have a hunch that Sam Spade is such a man that he doesn't let his family scandal out.' That's what I just said to him. of."
The wariness in Spade's eyes disappeared.His eyes were glazed now, with nothing but boredom.He turned his head to Tom, and asked in a nonchalant manner, "What is pissing off your boyfriend at this moment?"
Dundee jumped up and tapped Spade on the chest with two fingers bent.
"Just for that," he said, trying to spell out every word, tapping his fingers for emphasis. "Thursby was beaten to death in front of his hotel thirty-five minutes after you left Britt Street."
Spade spoke, also trying to articulate every word: "Get your damn paws off."
Dundee drew back his finger, but his tone remained the same. "Tom said you went off in a hurry without looking at your mate."
Tom growled apologetically, "Hey, damn it, Sam, you did just go away like that."
The officer said, "And you didn't go to Archer's house and tell his wife. We called his house and the girl from your office was there, and she said you sent her."
Spade nodded, his face foolishly composed.
Sergeant Dundee poked two fingers at Spade's chest, then quickly put them down and said, "I'll give you ten minutes to call and talk to the girl. Ten minutes to get to Thursby's place." —nearly—that's enough time for you. Fifteen minutes at most. Another ten or fifteen minutes and you'll be there waiting for him to show up."
"Do I know where he lives?" said Spade. "Do I know he didn't go straight home after he killed Miles?"
Dundee replied stubbornly: "You know what you know. When did you get home?"
"Three forty. I'll walk around and think about something."
The officer's round head bobbed up and down. "We know you're not home at three-thirty. We called you. Where the hell are you going?"
"Across Bush Street and back."
"Who did you meet on the way—?"
"No, no witnesses," said Spade, laughing. "Sit down, Dundee. You haven't finished your drink. Here's your glass, Tom."
Tom said, "No, thanks, Sam."
Dundee sat down.But he didn't even look at the red wine in his glass.
Spade poured himself a glass, finished it, put the empty glass on the table, and returned to his seat by the bed.
"I understand my situation now," he said, looking friendly from one detective to another. "I was arrogant just now, please forgive me. But you two guys came in and tried to put this on me, which made me angry. Miles died, and I was upset, you two guys It's got a thorn in it. Well now, I know why you're here."
Tom said, "Forget it."
The officer said nothing.
Spade asked, "Is Thursby dead?"
The officer hesitated, and Tom said, "Dead."
The officer said angrily, "If you don't know, it's good to let you know—he died before he could say anything."
Spade was rolling a cigarette.Without raising his head, he asked, "What do you mean by that, do you think I know about it?"
"I'm not kidding you," said Dundee stiffly.
Spade looked up at him, smiled, rolled cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other.
"You're not going to arrest me, Dundee?" he asked.
Dundee's hard green eyes were fixed on Spade and ignored him.
Spade said, "There's no particular reason why I should care what you think, then, is there, Dundee?"
Tom said, "Well, Sam, don't be unreasonable."
Spade put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and laughed and puffed out the smoke.
"I'll be reasonable, Tom," he promised. "How do I kill Thursby? I've forgotten."
Tom snorted in disgust.Inspector Dundee said: "He was shot four times in the back. With a 44 or 45. The bullets came from across the road as he was going into the hotel. No one saw it when it happened. But look That’s how it came to be.”
"He's got a Luger on his V-belt over his shoulder," Tom added. "No fire was fired."
"Does the hotel know about him?" Spade asked.
"Nothing, just that he's been here for a week."
"one person?"
"one person."
"Did you find anything on him? And in his room?"
Dundee pursed his lips.Then he asked, "What do you think we found?"
Spade casually drew a circle with the deflated cigarette. "Have you found anything to prove his identity, or his condition?"
"We thought you'd tell us."
Spade's sallow eyes looked at the officer with exaggerated frankness. "I've never met Thursby, not alive or dead."
Inspector Dundee stood up abruptly, looking dissatisfied.Tom got up too, yawned and stretched.
"When we come back, we've finished all the questions we need to ask." Dundee said, frowning.The eyeballs are as cold as two green crystals.His upper lip pressed tightly against his teeth, and his lower lip spit out the words. "We've told you more than you've told us. Fair enough. You know me too, Spade. Whether you know it or not, I've always dealt with you fairly, and You're probably lucky. I don't know if I blame you a little more—but that doesn't stop me from keeping an eye on you."
"Fair enough," replied Spade calmly, "I'd feel better if you'd finished your glass."
Inspector Dundee turned and walked to the table, picked up his glass, and drank slowly.Then he held out his hand and said, "See you tomorrow." They shook hands out of politeness.Tom and Spade also shook hands out of courtesy.Spade let them out.Then he undressed, turned off the light, and went to bed.
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