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 thirty-one. 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 smiling, 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.”