pocketknife, put the rest of the paper and Cairo’s sheet into the wastebasket, and returned to his office.
He sat down at his desk, looked up a number in the telephone-book, and used the telephone.
“Kearny one four oh one, please. … Where is the Paloma , in from Hong Kong yesterday morning, docked?” He repeated the question. “Thanks.”
He held the receiver-hook down with his thumb for a moment, released it, and said: “Davenport two oh two oh, please. … Detective bureau, please. … Is Sergeant Polhaus there? … Thanks. … Hello, Tom, this is Sam Spade. … Yes, I tried to get you yesterday afternoon. … Sure, suppose you go to lunch with me. … Right.”
He kept the receiver to his ear while his thumb worked the hook again.
“Davenport oh one seven oh, please. … Hello, this is Samuel Spade. My secretary got a phone message yesterday that Mr. Bryan wanted to see me. Will you ask him what time’s the most convenient for him? … Yes, Spade, S - p - a - d - e .” A long pause. “Yes. … Two-thirty? All right. Thanks.”
He called a fifth number and said: “Hello, darling, let me talk to Sid? … Hello, Sid—Sam. I’ve got a date with the District Attorney at half-past two this afternoon. Will you give me a ring—here or there—around four, just to see that I’m not in trouble? … Hell with your Saturday afternoon golf: your job’s to keep me out of jail. … Right, Sid. Bye.”
He pushed the telephone away, yawned, stretched, felt his bruised temple, looked at his watch, and rolled and lighted a cigarette. He smoked sleepily until Effie Perine came in.
Effie Perine came in smiling, bright-eyed and rosy-faced. “Ted says it could be,” she reported, “and he hopes it is. He says he’s not a specialist