Nightmare Town

And that is exactly what happened.

  Next day Herbert Whitacre walked into Police Headquarters at Sacramento and surrendered.

  Neither Ogburn nor Mae Landis ever told what they knew, but with Whitacre’s testimony, supported by what we were able to pick up here and there, we went into court when the time came and convinced the jury that the facts were these:

  Ogburn and Whitacre had opened their farm-development business as a plain swindle. They had options on a lot of land, and they planned to sell as many shares in their enterprise as possible before the time came to exercise their options. Then they intended packing up their bags and disappearing. Whitacre hadn’t much nerve, and he had a clear remembrance of the three years he had served in prison for forgery; so to bolster his courage, Ogburn had told his partner that he had a friend in the Post Office Department in Washington, D.C., who would tip him off the instant official suspicion was aroused.

  The two partners made a neat little pile out of their venture, Ogburn taking charge of the money until the time came for the split-up. Meanwhile, Ogburn and Mae Landis—Whitacre’s supposed wife—had become intimate, and had rented the apartment on Greenwich Street, meeting there afternoons when Whitacre was busy at the office, and when Ogburn was supposed to be out hunting fresh victims. In this apartment Ogburn and the woman had hatched their little scheme, whereby they were to get rid of Whitacre, keep all the loot, and clear Ogburn of criminal complicity in the affairs of Ogburn & Whitacre.

  Ogburn had come into the Continental office and told his little tale of his partner’s dishonesty, engaging Bob Teal to shadow him. Then he had told Whitacre that he had received a tip from his friend in Washington that an investigation was about to be made. The two partners planned to leave town on their separate ways the following week. The next night Mae Landis told Whitacre she had seen a man loitering in the neighborhood, apparently watching the building in which they lived. Whitacre—thinking Bob a Post Office inspector—had gone completely to pieces, and it had taken the combined efforts of the woman and his partner—apparently working separately—to keep him from bolting immediately. They persuaded him to stick it out another few days.

  On the night of the murder, Ogburn, pretending skepticism of Whitacre’s story about being followed, had met Whitacre for the purpose of learning if he really was being shadowed. They had walked the streets in the rain for an hour. Then Ogburn, convinced, had announced his intention of going back and talking to the supposed Post Office inspector, to see if he could be bribed. Whitacre had refused to accompany his partner, but had agreed to wait for him in a dark doorway.

  Ogburn had taken Bob Teal over behind the billboards on some pretext, and had murdered him. Then he had hurried back to his partner, crying: “My God! He grabbed me and I shot him. We’ll have to leave!”

  Whitacre, in blind panic, had left San Francisco without stopping for his bags or even notifying Mae Landis. Ogburn was supposed to leave by another route. They were to meet in Oklahoma City ten days later, where Ogburn—after getting the loot out of the Los Angeles banks where he had deposited it under various names—was to give Whitacre his share, and then they were to part for good.

  In Sacramento next day Whitacre had read the newspapers, and had understood what had been done to him. He had done all the bookkeeping; all the false entries in Ogburn & Whitacre’s books were in his writing. Mae Landis had revealed his former criminal record, and had fastened the ownership of the gun—really Ogburn’s—upon him. He was framed completely! He hadn’t a chance of clearing himself.

  He had known that his story would sound like a far-fetched and flimsy lie; he had a criminal record. For him to have surrendered and told the truth would have been merely to get himself laughed at.

  As it turned out, Ogburn went to the gallows, Mae Landis is now serving a fifteen-year sentence, and Whitacre, in return for his testimony and restitution of the loot, was not prosecuted for his share in the land swindle.

  A MAN CALLED SPADE

  Samuel Spade put his telephone aside and looked at his watch. It was not quite four o’clock. He called, “Yoo-hoo!”

  Effie Perine came in from the outer office. She was eating a piece of chocolate cake.

  “Tell Sid Wise I won’t be able to keep that date this afternoon,” he said.

  She put the last of the cake into her mouth and licked the tips of her forefinger and thumb. “That’s the third time this week.”

  When he smiled, the V’s of his chin, mouth, and brows grew longer. “I know, but I’ve got to go out and save a life.” He nodded at the telephone. “Somebody’s scaring Max Bliss.”

  She laughed. “Probably somebody named John D. Conscience.”

  He looked up at her from the cigarette he had begun to make. “Know anything I ought to know about him?”

  “Nothing you don’t know. I was just thinking about the time he let his brother go to San Quentin.”

  Spade shrugged. “That’s not the worst thing he’s done.” He lit his cigarette, stood up, and reached for his hat. “But he’s all right now. All Samuel Spade clients are honest, God-fearing folk. If I’m not back at closing time just run along.”

  He went to a tall apartment building on Nob Hill, pressed a button set in the frame of a door marked 10K. The door was opened immediately by a burly dark man in wrinkled dark clothes. He was nearly bald and carried a gray hat in one hand.

  The burly man said, “Hello, Sam.” He smiled, but his small eyes lost none of their shrewdness. “What are you doing here?”

  Spade said, “Hello, Tom.” His face was wooden, his voice expressionless. “Bliss in?”

  “Is he!” Tom pulled down the corners of his thick-lipped mouth. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  Spade’s brows came together. “Well?”

  A man appeared in the vestibule behind Tom. He was smaller than either Spade or Tom, but compactly built. He had a ruddy, square face and a close-trimmed, grizzled mustache. His clothes were neat. He wore a black bowler perched on the back of his head.

  Spade addressed this man over Tom’s shoulder. “Hello, Dundy.”

  Dundy nodded briefly and came to the door. His blue eyes were hard and prying.

  “What is it?” he asked Tom.

  “B-l-i-s-s, M-a-x,” Spade spelled patiently. “I want to see him. He wants to see me. Catch on?”

  Tom laughed. Dundy did not. Tom said, “Only one of you gets your wish.” Then he glanced sidewise at Dundy and abruptly stopped laughing. He seemed uncomfortable.

  Spade scowled. “All right,” he demanded irritably; “is he dead or has he killed somebody?”

  Dundy thrust his square face up at Spade and seemed to push his words out with his lower lip. “What makes you think either?”

  Spade said, “Oh, sure! I come calling on Mr. Bliss and I’m stopped at the door by a couple of men from the police Homicide Detail, and I’m supposed to think I’m just interrupting a game of rummy.”

  “Aw, stop it, Sam,” Tom grumbled, looking at neither Spade nor Dundy. “He’s dead.”

  “Killed?”

  Tom wagged his head slowly up and down. He looked at Spade now. “What’ve you got on it?”

  Spade replied in a deliberate monotone, “He called me up this afternoon—say at five minutes to four—I looked at my watch after he hung up and there was still a minute to go—and said somebody was after his scalp. He wanted me to come over. It seemed real enough to him—it was up in his neck all right.” He made a small gesture with one hand. “Well, here I am.”

  “Didn’t say who or how?” Dundy asked.

  Spade shook his head. “No. Just somebody had offered to kill him and he believed them, and would I come over right away.”

  “Didn’t he—?” Dundy began quickly.

  “He didn’t say anything else,” Spade said. “Don’t you people tell me anything?”

  Dundy said curtly, “Come in and take a look at him.”

  Tom said, “It’s a sight.”

  They
went across the vestibule and through a door into a green and rose living-room.

  A man near the door stopped sprinkling white powder on the end of a glass-covered small table to say, “Hello, Sam.”

  Spade nodded, said, “How are you, Phels?” and then nodded at the two men who stood talking by a window.

  The dead man lay with his mouth open. Some of his clothes had been taken off. His throat was puffy and dark. The end of his tongue showing in a corner of his mouth was bluish, swollen. On his bare chest, over the heart, a five-pointed star had been outlined in black ink and in the center of it a T.

  Spade looked down at the dead man and stood for a moment silently studying him. Then he asked, “He was found like that?”

  “About,” Tom said. “We moved him around a little.” He jerked a thumb at the shirt, undershirt, vest, and coat lying on a table. “They were spread over the floor.”

  Spade rubbed his chin. His yellow-gray eyes were dreamy. “When?”

  Tom said, “We got it at four-twenty. His daughter gave it to us.” He moved his head to indicate a closed door. “You’ll see her.”

  “Know anything?”

  “Heaven knows,” Tom said wearily. “She’s been kind of hard to get along with so far.” He turned to Dundy. “Want to try her again now?”

  Dundy nodded, then spoke to one of the men at the window. “Start sifting his papers, Mack. He’s supposed to’ve been threatened.”

  Mack said, “Right.” He pulled his hat down over his eyes and walked toward a green secrétaire in the far end of the room.

  A man came in from the corridor, a heavy man of fifty with a deeply lined, grayish face under a broad-brimmed black hat. He said, “Hello, Sam,” and then told Dundy, “He had company around half past two, stayed just about an hour. A big blond man in brown, maybe forty or forty-five. Didn’t send his name up. I got it from the Filipino in the elevator that rode him both ways.”

  “Sure it was only an hour?” Dundy asked.

  The gray-faced man shook his head. “But he’s sure it wasn’t more than half past three when he left. He says the afternoon papers came in then, and this man had ridden down with him before they came.” He pushed his hat back to scratch his head, then pointed a thick finger at the design inked on the dead man’s breast and asked somewhat plaintively, “What the deuce do you suppose that thing is?”

  Nobody replied. Dundy asked, “Can the elevator boy identify him?”

  “He says he could, but that ain’t always the same thing. Says he never saw him before.” He stopped looking at the dead man. “The girl’s getting me a list of his phone calls. How you been, Sam?”

  Spade said he had been all right. Then he said slowly, “His brother’s big and blond and maybe forty or forty-five.”

  Dundy’s blue eyes were hard and bright. “So what?” he asked.

  “You remember the Graystone Loan swindle. They were both in on it, but Max eased the load over on Theodore and it turned out to be one to fourteen years in San Quentin.”

  Dundy was slowly wagging his head up and down. “I remember now. Where is he?”

  Spade shrugged and began to make a cigarette.

  Dundy nudged Tom with an elbow. “Find out.”

  Tom said, “Sure, but if he was out of here at half past three and this fellow was still alive at five to four—”

  “And he broke his leg so he couldn’t duck back in,” the gray-faced man said jovially.

  “Find out,” Dundy repeated.

  Tom said, “Sure, sure,” and went to the telephone.

  Dundy addressed the gray-faced man: “Check up on the newspapers; see what time they were actually delivered this afternoon.”

  The gray-faced man nodded and left the room.

  The man who had been searching the secrétaire said, “Uh-huh,” and turned around holding an envelope in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other.

  Dundy held out his hand. “Something?”

  The man said, “Uh-huh,” again and gave Dundy the sheet of paper.

  Spade was looking over Dundy’s shoulder.

  It was a small sheet of common white paper bearing a penciled message in neat, undistinguished handwriting:

  When this reaches you I will be too close for you to escape—this time. We will balance our accounts—for good.

  The signature was a five-pointed star enclosing a T, the design on the dead man’s left breast.

  Dundy held out his hand again and was given the envelope. Its stamp was French. The address was typewritten:

  MAX BLISS, ESQ.

  AMSTERDAM APARTMENTS,

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF.

  U.S.A.

  “Postmarked Paris,” he said, “the second of the month.” He counted swiftly on his fingers. “That would get it here to-day, all right.” He folded the message slowly, put it in the envelope, put the envelope in his coat pocket. “Keep digging,” he told the man who found the message.

  The man nodded and returned to the secrétaire.

  Dundy looked at Spade. “What do you think of it?”

  Spade’s brown cigarette wagged up and down with the words. “I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it.”

  Tom put down the telephone. “He got out the fifteenth of last month,” he said. “I got them trying to locate him.”

  Spade went to the telephone, called a number, and asked for Mr. Darrell. Then: “Hello, Harry, this is Sam Spade…. Fine. How’s Lil?…Yes…. Listen, Harry, what does a five-pointed star with a capital T in the middle mean?…What? How do you spell it?…Yes, I see…. And if you found it on a body?…Neither do I…. Yes, and thanks. I’ll tell you about it when I see you…. Yes, give me a ring…. Thanks…. ’Bye.”

  Dundy and Tom were watching him closely when he turned from the telephone. He said, “That’s a fellow who knows things sometimes. He says it’s a pentagram with a Greek tau—t-a-u—in the middle; a sign magicians used to use. Maybe Rosicrucians still do.”

  “What’s a Rosicrucian?” Tom asked.

  “It could be Theodore’s first initial, too,” Dundy said.

  Spade moved his shoulders, said carelessly, “Yes, but if he wanted to autograph the job it’d have been just as easy for him to sign his name.”

  He then went on more thoughtfully, “There are Rosicrucians at both San Jose and Point Loma. I don’t go much for this, but maybe we ought to look them up.”

  Dundy nodded.

  Spade looked at the dead man’s clothes on the table. “Anything in his pockets?”

  “Only what you’d expect to find,” Dundy replied. “It’s on the table there.”

  Spade went to the table and looked down at the little pile of watch and chain, keys, wallet, address book, money, gold pencil, handkerchief, and spectacle case beside the clothing. He did not touch them, but slowly picked up, one at a time, the dead man’s shirt, undershirt, vest, and coat. A blue necktie lay on the table beneath them. He scowled irritably at it. “It hasn’t been worn,” he complained.

  Dundy, Tom, and the coroner’s deputy, who had stood silent all this while by the window—he was a small man with a slim, dark, intelligent face—came together to stare down at the unwrinkled blue silk.

  Tom groaned miserably. Dundy cursed under his breath. Spade lifted the necktie to look at its back. The label was a London haberdasher’s.

  Spade said cheerfully, “Swell. San Francisco, Point Loma, San Jose, Paris, London.”

  Dundy glowered at him.

  The gray-faced man came in. “The papers got here at three-thirty, all right,” he said. His eyes widened a little. “What’s up?” As he crossed the room toward them he said, “I can’t find anybody that saw Blondy sneak back in here again.” He looked uncomprehendingly at the necktie until Tom growled, “It’s brand-new”; then he whistled softly.

  Dundy turned to Spade. “The deuce with all this,” he said bitterly. “He’s got a brother with reasons for not liking him. The brother just got out of stir. Somebody who looks like his brother lef
t here at half past three. Twenty-five minutes later he phoned you he’d been threatened. Less than half an hour after that his daughter came in and found him dead—strangled.” He poked a finger at the small, dark-faced man’s chest. “Right?”

  “Strangled,” the dark-faced man said precisely, “by a man. The hands were large.”

  “O.K.” Dundy turned to Spade again. “We find a threatening letter. Maybe that’s what he was telling you about, maybe it was something his brother said to him. Don’t let’s guess. Let’s stick to what we know. We know he—”

  The man at the secrétaire turned around and said, “Got another one.” His mien was somewhat smug.

  The eyes with which the five men at the table looked at him were identically cold, unsympathetic.

  He, nowise disturbed by their hostility, read aloud:

  “Dear Bliss:

  I am writing this to tell you for the last time that I want my money back, and I want it back by the first of the month, all of it If I don’t get it I am going to do something about it, and you ought to be able to guess what I mean. And don’t think I am kidding.

  Yours truly,

  Daniel Talbot.”

  He grinned. “That’s another T for you.” He picked up an envelope. “Postmarked San Diego, the twenty-fifth of last month.” He grinned again. “And that’s another city for you.”

  Spade shook his head. “Point Loma’s down that way,” he said.

  He went over with Dundy to look at the letter. It was written in blue ink on white stationery of good quality, as was the address on the envelope, in a cramped, angular handwriting that seemed to have nothing in common with that of the penciled letter.

  Spade said ironically, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Dundy made an impatient gesture. “Let’s stick to what we know,” he growled.

  “Sure,” Spade agreed. “What is it?”

  There was no reply.

  Spade took tobacco and cigarette papers from his pocket. “Didn’t somebody say something about talking to a daughter?” he asked.

  “We’ll talk to her.” Dundy turned on his heel, then suddenly frowned at the dead man on the floor. He jerked a thumb at the small, dark-faced man. “Through with it?”