Work Text:
The windows were dark in the offices of Samuel Spade, formerly Spade and Archer until the bad business a few months earlier had planted one of the partners in a patch of dirt. The business’s namesake and owner sat at his desk, smoking by the light of the streetlamp that shone through the lettering on his window, casting angular shadows across his face.
Christ. The Black Bird. For weeks after he’d turned things over to the cops the offices had been busy. Word got out to the papers that the City’s own Sam Spade had wrapped up an international mystery.
People liked that: murder, revenge, romance, and a close-mouthed detective who wasn’t giving interviews anymore. He’d given a few at the beginning, offering drinks and lighting cigarettes of the reporters and curious people who wandered through his door. A few posed as clients, though they had no problems to speak of. They just wanted a good look at the man who’d sent up the woman who’d killed his partner.
Spade was sick of it. The harsh angles of his face relaxed and flattened into an exhausted grimace and he watched the smoke curl and cloud around his head, settling on his desk blotter like the fog sat on the city outside.
For starters, Effie didn’t like it. Not that she’d said anything, but it was clear that she wanted the whole damn business behind her. Every time another curious journalist, or “client”, or small-time crook stumbled in looking for the full story she’d go hard and flat. Sometimes she’d even knock off early, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened before the Brigid had walked into his office. Since, though…
He exhaled and blew a clear patch through the hazy air, then opened a drawer and pulled a bottle of rye from it, pouring a generous helping into a glass pulled from the same drawer.
He hadn’t been sleeping much. Sometimes it was easier to stay at the office than go home. Sometimes Iva was home. He’d walk through the door and she’d be on him, mouth turned to his, hands grasping at him, desperate and sad and he’d lean into her and shut the door behind him.
It was just easier to not go home.
He poured another glass of rye and rolled another cigarette, swiveling his chair to look into the night.
Maybe it was time to leave this town. He’d done it before, in Seattle. Settle somewhere else. Effie could find new work, she was a good girl. He could give her one hell of a recommendation. He took another drag and coughed, at the exact moment the door behind him opened.
He didn’t hear the light footsteps of the intruder until the floorboards creaked right behind him, and as he turned in surprise all he saw were huge blue eyes in a pale face before the butt of the gun hit him and he saw nothing at all.
*
When he awoke he was tied to his chair with what felt like telelphone wire, a feeling confirmed by the mangled remains of the telephone he saw on his desk. His feet were more or less free, so by pushing the ground with his toes he could turn the chair and lean it back a bit. This he did, facing the young girl who was rocking back and forth in front of the desk.
She’d thrown her coat and hat onto the other chair, and wore a simple black dress that was too matronly for her. In her left hand she carried a revolver that was much too large for it.
There was something familiar about her, the slender grace with which she held herself, and the frantic look on her face as she leaned in to see if he was awake.
His face was calm, almost pleasant underneath the slow trickle of blood from his temple. His eyes were murderous.
He turned his thick arms beneath the wire and the ties creaked against the leather armrests. The girl jumped back onto one foot and raised the gun to point at Spade’s face. He blinked at her and lifted his hands, wrists to elbows still bound to the chair.
“Now, there’s no need for that.”
The gun didn’t move from its target. He could hear the girl breathing.
“Listen,” He said, smiling a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “if you’re going to shoot me I’d sure as hell like to know why. This is all a mystery to me so far.”
The gun wavered and lowered to his chest.
“Who are you?”
The gun raised again, the girl walked around the desk, closer to him.
“My name is Corinne O’Shaughnessy, and you,” she took a breath, “killed my sister.”
Spade blinked up at her placidly, crossing his ankles under the chair and calculating how much closer she’d have to be before he could sweep the legs from under her and knock her to the floor.
“’Sthat so?” He said, “You know, I thought she’d made you up.”
Corinne gave a strangled laugh, “Why would you think that?”
“Oh, only because she’d lied about everything else. I thought she’d made you up to get me on her side to start with. Appeal to my motherly instincts. Now I see it was the opposite.”
She looked close to tears, but the gun was still pointed at his face. A single bullet would kill him, he knew that. He relaxed further into his chair.
“How do you mean?” She asked.
“It was her own instincts she was appealing to, she had a whole character she was playing. She needed something to make it real, or we’d never have believed her,” He looked her full in the face, “Not that we ever did.”
The gun smacked him in the same spot as before and he shouted in pain. He shook his head and leaned it against the back of his chair, looking at her over the bridge of his nose.
“You killed her,” Corinne said, “she’s dead, because of you. I read the papers, I talked to people. You didn’t have to do it but you did, just to save yourself.” The gun was cocked and digging painfully into the fresh wound on his face.
“I did,” He agreed, amiably, “She killed my partner. She probably would have killed me somewhere down the line. I thought she’d probably get off with some jail time but I knew there was a chance,” He cleared his throat, “But that doesn’t matter. You’re not going to kill me.”
Corinne laughed, “why not?”
“Because you’ll get caught. Then I’ll have killed both of you.”
Her mouth opened, but he would never hear what she would have said, because the door into the hall opened and the light outside turned on.
They both froze as Effie’s silhouette moved on the other side of the door and disappeared. Suddenly the night was less oppressive, he could hear cars in the street outside, Effie’s steps outside.
Corinne turned to the door, gun at her side. She walked close enough that he breath clouded the glass in the window. She raised the gun again, as if she were going to shoot through the glass, and Spade felt bile rise in his throat. He couldn't warn Effie without scaring the girl, and he wanted her to keep thinking.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The phone rang and after a pause Effie crossed the room on the other side of the door to pick it up. Spade had never heard her sound more tired.
"I'm alright, Ma. I just had to get some work done"
"Don't worry I'm being safe,"
"You think I keep odd hours, how long do you think he's been up? I need to be here I..."
"Yeah, okay. I love you too."
Spade stared at the silhouette through the door. His first guess, that Corinne had called Effie to get her to the office, was turned over when he saw her face. Her mouth was a shaking line, the gun held tight to her front, like a doll. All at once the fight left her body and she began to cry, teeth clenched angrily against the tears as she wiped her face with the same hand that held the gun she had hit him with. Helpless and angry and sad, she turned and sat on the far side of the desk. Spade thought she couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
*
When they walked out of the office together, the cut on his forehead had been cleaned and her coat was draped over her shoulders. The gun was safely in his desk drawer.
Effie looked up in surprise, and Spade looked back at her. She was wearing a dressing gown, and leaning over the couch, which had been half made up as a bed.
He nodded his head at the girl and said, “This is Corinne. She was just stopping by,” He walked her the rest of the way to the front door and opened it, “Come back during business hours and we’ll see if we can’t take care of your problem.”
She looked at him through bloodshot blue eyes and disappeared down the hall. Spade turned to where Effie was standing, twitching the sleeves of her dressing gown over her arms. She wasn’t quite looking at him.
“Isn’t she a little young for you?”
“Not like that,” he walked forward and brushed the hair out of her face. She was pale beneath her tan. His eyes drifted to the couch.
“Rough nights, Angel?” He asked, gently.
She shrugged and pushed her hair behind her ear, knocking his hand away in the process. “Sometimes it’s just nice not to have to worry about Ma in the next room. I don’t do it much, Sam.” She looked him in the eye and made a face, “I won’t do it at all, anymore, okay?”
He nodded, and leaned back on his heels, hands in his pockets, looking around at the office.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly, “We should get out of this place,”
She looked down at her dressing gown and back to him, eyebrow raised.
“No, this town,” He took one hand from his pocket and brushed some imaginary lint from her shoulder. “I was thinking of taking the business to Chicago. It’d be nice not to have to train a new girl.”
She smiled at him, “Chicago? Just like that?”
“Sure,” He sat on the couch, picking up the pillow and putting it behind his head, “Why? You got something keeping you here?”
She cocked her head and smiled a wry smile, crossing her arms, “Only my whole life.”
“Yeah,” he said, quietly, looking up at her, “that’s sort of what I meant.”
Her smile shook, disappeared, then came back stronger. She sat beside him.
“Chicago, huh?”
He grinned, full and toothy.
“Chicago.”