Spade went up to the door and listened. He could hear nothing. He tried to look through the glass of the door. There was no curtain to keep his gaze out, but inner darkness. FIe tiptoed to a window and then to another. They, like the door, were uncurtained except by inner darkness. He tried both windows. They were locked. He tried the door. It was locked.
He left the porch and, stepping carefully over dark unfamiliar ground, walked through weeds around the house. The side-windows were too high to be reached from the ground. The back door and the one back window he could reach were locked.
Spade went back to the gatepost and, cupping the flame between his hands, held his lighter up to the For Sale or Rent sign. It bore the printed name and address of a San Mateo real-estate-dealer and a line penciled in blue: Key at 31.
Spade returned to the sedan and asked the chauffeur: “Got a flashlight?”
“Sure.” He gave it to Spade. “Can I give you a hand at anything?”
“Maybe.” Spade got into the sedan. “We’ll ride up to number thirtyone. You can use your lights.”
Number 31 was a square grey house across the street from, but a little farther up than, 26. Lights glowed in its downstairs-windows. Spade went up on the porch and rang the bell. A dark-haired girl of fourteen or fifteen opened the door. Spade, bowing and smihng, said: “I’d like to get the key to number twenty-six.”
“I’ll call Papa,” she said and went back into the house calling: “Papa!”
A plump red-faced man, bald-headed and heavily mustached, appeared, carrying a newspaper.
Spade said: “I’d like to get the key to twenty-six.”
The plump man looked doubtful. He said: “The juice is not on. You couldn’t see anything.”
Spade patted his pocket. “I’ve a flashlight.”
The plump man looked more doubtful. He cleared his throat uneasily and crumpled the newspaper in his hand.
Spade showed him one of his business-cards, put it back in his pocket, and said in a low voice: “We got a tip that there might be something hidden there.”
The plump man’s face and voice were eager. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ll go over with you.”
A moment later he came back carrying a brass key attached to a black and red tag. Spade beckoned to the chauffeur as they passed the car and the chauffeur joined them.
“Anybody been looking at the house lately?” Spade asked.
“Not that I know of,” the plump man replied. “Nobody’s been to me for the key in a couple of months.”
The plump man marched ahead with the key until they had gone up on the porch. Then he thrust the key into Spade’s hand, mumbled, “Here you are,” and stepped aside.
Spade unlocked the door and pushed it open. There was silence and darkness. Holding the flashlight–dark–in his left hand, Spade entered. The chauffeur came close behind him and then, at a little distance, the plump man followed them. They searched the house from bottom to top, cautiously at first, then, finding nothing, boldly. The house was empty– unmistakably–and there was nothing to indicate that it had been visited in weeks.
Saying, “Thanks, that’s all,” Spade left the sedan in front of the Alexandria. He went into the hotel, to the desk, where a tall young man with a dark grave face said: “Good evening, Mr. Spade.”
“Good evening.” Spade drew the young man to one end of the desk. “These Gutmans–up in twelve C–are they in?”
The young man replied, “No,” darting a quick glance at Spade. Then he looked away, hesitated, looked at Spade again, and murmured: “A funny thing happened in connection with them this evening, Mr. Spade. Somebody called the Emergency Hospital and told them there was a sick girl up there.”
“And there wasn’t?”
“Oh, no, there was nobody up there. They went out earlier in the evening.”
Spade said: “Well, these practical-jokers have to have their fun. Thanks.”
He went to a telephone-booth, called a number, and said: “Hello.
Mrs. Perine? . . . Is Effie there? . . . Yes, please. . . . Thanks.