This is Mr. Hooper of the Alexandria.”
He put the receiver on its prong and laughed. He called another number and said: “Hello, Frank. This is Sam Spade. … Can you let me have a car with a driver who’ll keep his mouth shut? … To go down the peninsula right away. … Just a couple of hours. … Right. Have him pick me up at John’s, Ellis Street, as soon as he can make it.”
He called another number—his office’s—held the receiver to his ear for a little while without saying anything, and replaced it on its hook.
He went to John’s Grill, asked the waiter to hurry his order of chops, baked potato, and sliced tomatoes, ate hurriedly, and was smoking a cigarette with his coffee when a thickset youngish man with a plaid cap set askew above pale eyes and a tough cheery face came into the Grill and to his table.
“All set, Mr. Spade. She’s full of gas and rearing to go.”
“Swell.” Spade emptied his cup and went out with the thickset man. “Know where Ancho Avenue, or Road, or Boulevard, is in Burlingame?”
“Nope, but if she’s there we can find her.”
“Let’s do that,” Spade said as he sat beside the chauffeur in the dark Cadillac sedan. “Twenty-six is the number we want, and the sooner the better, but we don’t want to pull up at the front door.”
“Correct.”
They rode half a dozen blocks in silence. The chauffeur said: “Your partner got knocked off, didn’t he, Mr. Spade?”
“Uh-huh.”
The chauffeur clucked. “She’s a tough racket. You can have it for mine.”