living relatives, his nephews Wallace and Ira.
“That was all right with them. ‘Only living relatives’ meant ‘only heirs’ in their language. But by and by the nephews began to think it was better to be an heir than to be one of a couple of heirs — twice as good, in fact — and started fiddling for the inside track with the old man. At least, that’s what Ira told me about Wallace, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Wallace would say the same thing about Ira, though Wallace seems to be the harder up of the two. Anyhow, the nephews fell out, and then Uncle Tim, who had been staying at Ira’s, came over here. That was a couple of months ago, and Ira hasn’t seen Uncle Tim since, and hasn’t been able to get in touch with him by phone or mail.
“That’s what he wanted a private detective about. He didn’t think Uncle Tim would come to any harm here — oh, no, he went to a lot of trouble to make that clear — but he thought maybe undue pressure was being brought to bear on the old boy, or he was being hornswoggled somehow, and at least being told lies about his loving nephew Ira. He wanted to know what was what. I waited until today, when a boat from Australia docked, and came up here as a Mr. Ames with some important information for Uncle Tim about his properties down there. All I wanted was fifteen minutes alone with him.” Spade frowned thoughtfully. “Well, I didn’t get them. Wallace told me the old man refused to see me. I don’t know.”
Suspicion had deepened in Dundy’s cold blue eyes. “And where is this Ira Binnett now?” he asked.
Spade’s yellow-gray eyes were as guileless as his voice.
“I wish I knew. I phoned his house and office and left word for him to come right over, but I’m afraid — ”
Knuckles knocked sharply twice on the other side of the room’s one door. The three men in the room turned to face the door.
Dundy called, “Come in.”
The door was opened by a sunburned blond policeman whose left hand held the right wrist of a plump man of forty or forty-five in well-fitting gray clothes. The policeman pushed the plump man into the room. “Found him monkeying with the kitchen door,” he said.
Spade looked up and said: “Ah!” His tone expressed satisfaction. “Mr. Ira Binnett, Lieutenant Dundy, Sergeant Polhaus.”
Ira Binnett said rapidly: “Mr. Spade, will you tell this man that — ”
Dundy addressed the policeman: “All right. Good work. You can leave him.”
The policeman moved a hand vaguely towards his cap
and went away.
‘
Dundy glowered at Ira Binnett and demanded, “Well?”
Binnett looked from Dundy to Spade. “Has something – ”
Spade said: “Better tell him why you were at the back door instead of the front.”
Ira Binnett suddenly blushed. He cleared his throat in embarrassment. He said: “I —uh —I should explain. It wasn’t my fault, of course, but when Jarboe — he’s the butler — phoned me that Uncle Tim wanted to see me he
told me he’d leave the kitchen door unlocked, so Wallace wouldn’t have to know I’d — ”
“What’d he want to see you about?” Dundy asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He said it was very important.”
“Didn’t you get my message?” Spade asked.
Ira Binnett’s eyes widened. “No. What was it? Has any-think happened? What is — ”
Spade was moving toward the door. “Go ahead,” he said to Dundy. “I’ll be right back.”
He shut the door carefully behind him and went up to the third floor.
The butler Jarboe was on his knees at Timothy Binnett’s door with an eye to the keyhole. On the floor beside him was a tray holding an egg in an egg-cup, toast, a pot of coffee, china, silver, and a napkin.
Spade said: “Your toast’s going to get cold.”
Jarboe, scrambling to his feet, almost upsetting the coffeepot in his haste, his face red and sheepish, stammered: “I — er — beg your pardon, sir. I wanted to make sure Mr. Timothy was awake before I took this in.” He picked up the tray. “I didn’t want to disturb his rest if — “