XIX

Spade rolled and smoked cigarettes and moved, without fidgeting or nervousness, around the room. He sat sometimes on an arm of the girl’s chair, on the table-corner, on the floor at her feet, on a straight-backed chair. He was wide-awake, cheerful, and full of vigor.

At half-past five he went into the kitchen and made more coffee. Half an hour later the boy stirred, awakened, and sat up yawning. Gutman looked at his watch and questioned Spade: “Can you get it now?”

“Give me another hour.”

Gutman nodded and went back to his book.

At seven o’clock Spade went to the telephone and called Effie Perine’s number. “Hello, Mrs. Perine?⁠ ⁠… This is Mr. Spade. Will you let me talk to Effie, please?⁠ ⁠… Yes, it is.⁠ ⁠… Thanks.” He whistled two lines of “ En Cuba ,” softly. “Hello, angel. Sorry to get you up.⁠ ⁠… Yes, very. Here’s the plot: in our Holland box at the Post Office you’ll find an envelope addressed in my scribble. There’s a Pickwick Stage parcel-room check in it⁠—for the bundle we got yesterday. Will you get the bundle and bring it to me⁠— P.D.Q. ?⁠ ⁠… Yes, I’m home.⁠ ⁠… That’s the girl⁠—hustle.⁠ ⁠… Bye.”

The street doorbell rang at ten minutes of eight. Spade went to the telephone-box and pressed the button that released the lock. Gutman put down his book and rose smiling. “You don’t mind if I go to the door with you?” he asked.

“OK,” Spade told him.

Gutman followed him to the corridor door. Spade opened it. Presently Effie Perine, carrying the brown-wrapped parcel, came from the elevator. Her boyish face was gay and bright and she came forward quickly, almost trotting. After one glance she did not look at Gutman. She smiled at Spade and gave him the parcel.