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.