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.
Saying,
"Thanks, that's all," Spade left the sedan in front of the Alexandria.
He went into the hotel, to the desk, where a tall young man with a dark grave face said:
"Good evening, Mr. Spade."
"Good evening."
Spade drew the young man to one end of the desk.
"These Gutmans—up in twelve C—are they in?"
The young man replied,
"No," darting a quick glance at Spade.
Then he looked away, hesitated, looked at Spade again, and murmured:
"A funny thing happened in connection with them this evening, Mr. Spade.
Somebody called the Emergency Hospital and told them there was a sick girl up there."
"And there wasn't?"
"Oh, no, there was nobody up there.
They went out earlier in the evening."
Spade said:
"Well, these practical-jokers have to have their fun.
Thanks."
He went to a telephone-booth, called a number, and said:
"Hello.
Mrs. Perine? . . .
Is Effie there? . . .
Yes, please. . . .
Thanks.
"Hello, angel!
What's the good word' Fine, fine!
Hold it.
I'll be out in twenty minutes. . . .
Right."
Half an hour later Spade rang the doorbell of a two-story brick building in Ninth Avenue.
Effie Perine opened the door.
Her boyish face was tired and smiling.
"Hello, boss," she said.
"Enter."
She said in a low voice: "If Ma says anything to you, Sam, be nice to her.
She's all up in the air."
Spade grinned reassuringly and patted her shoulder.
She put her hands on his arm.
"Miss O'Shaughnessy?"
"No," he growled.
"I ran into a plant.
Are you sure it was her voice?"
"Yes."
He made an unpleasant face.
"Well, it was hooey."
She took him into a bright living-room, sighed, and slumped down on one end of a Chesterfield, smiling cheerfully up at him through her weariness.
He sat beside her and asked: