 It's me, Ef. It's, uh, Carlos Salcedo, the Mexican consul called. No, Sam. Well, he will, uh, tell him it's not what we thought it was. To hold everything, I'll get to him as soon as I can. Yes, Sam, you sound so tired. Are you all right? I am, and I'm not. There were too many windmills to chase, too much language I didn't understand, and much too much venganza, which is Spanish for vendetta, which is English for vengeance. In any language, it's dynamite with a short fuse. Then you knew what it was all about all along, Sam. It was revenge. It was, and it wasn't. Oh, I'm afraid I don't understand. What about the girl? Is she all right? She is, and she isn't. I am confused. Exactly par for the course, but don't worry, Ef. It'll straighten out like star spaghetti when I come down to say it with flowers dictating, as I will, my report of fury and ferment on the red amapola caper. Little Poppy. Oh, Sam. Mr. Salcedo. Mr. Salcedo. Mr. Salcedo called. I told him what you told me to tell him. For more, I couldn't ask, Ef. He understood what you meant perfectly. I don't understand a thing. You will. You know, I may have to trade this stuff in for tequila. No messing around there. Straight to the point. A virtue some people might do well to cultivate. Just tell me one thing, Sam. Was it a sour caper? Let's not tarry, Ef, to the point, remember? Pad ready? Pencil poised? Knees crossed? Yes, Sam. Uh, skirt a little bit higher. Oh, is? All right. Date, fill it in. Thank you, Lieutenant Kelsey. Homicide details, San Francisco police. From Samuel Spade, license number 17596. Subject, the red amapola caper. The following is, as you requested, a detailed account of the 31 hours, 16 minutes I spent on the case of Amando Rios and daughter. I trust it will answer all your questions, solve your commissioner problems, and enable you to speedily dispatch your duty as one of the city's finest. May heaven help our city. So come back with me to 3 p.m. yesterday. The approximate time I stepped into my office and saw, standing nervously by the window, a Mexican girl in her early 20s. Her clothes, though neat and clean, were rummage sale specials, which had seen better days. Her bare legs were too thin, her features too drawn. But the midnight color of her hair and the largeness of her eyes told me she could have been beautiful if things had gone another way. I'm glad you have come. I couldn't have waited much longer. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here. My name is Andrea Rios. I would like to hire you. But I do not have much money. Well, much money may not be needed, Miss Rios. What is it you want? Your time, Mr. Spade. You see, if you accept this job, I must have all of your time from now until tomorrow morning. You cannot accept. You must tell me now so I can get someone else. I see. I can only pay $30. I know it's much to ask for $30, but... Ask for more, for less. The job may be difficult for you. You will not be able to sleep. I can make that up on somebody else's time. Then you will help? Yes, I think so. I would like to hear more about it. We will go to my father. You will learn more there. She led me to the nearest streetcar, headed for south of the slot and paid the fare. Twenty minutes later, we were walking through the San Francisco that's left over, where the liquor is cheap and one cigarette is property. The sounds of a jazzed up Spanish song caught my ear and the beer signs turned to Surveza. The building Andrea Rios picked to go into was old enough to give the termites in digestion. The faded sign said La Casa Asul. She knocked on the door of room 12. Andrea. Andrea, papa. The weather-beaten face that stood in the doorway figured to be 60, but the age should have come from concern. He wore a black sweatshirt, pants to match and a dirty white sailor's cap. Inside on the table, sat a bottle of high-octane joy juice, that witch hazel with a misnomer, tequila. The lemon and salt stood alongside, on the bed lay a duffel bag with the blocked letters Santa Susana. It's the man, papa. What's his name? Mr. Spade. The detective. My father speaks no English. I see. You have confidence in him. Is he honored? He asks, if you are an honest man. It's a question no man can answer with complete honesty. What have you said, Andrea? What do you know? Nothing, papa. Sit down and have a drink. Tell father I will, but I'd enjoy it more if I knew why I was hired. Yes, of course. To spend the night here, Mr. Spade, with my father, to keep an eye on him all the time. Perfection? No. Well, there must be more to it. We want you to be able to testify to my father's whereabouts this night, if it should become necessary. What's going to happen this night? Something. You want your father in a clear? Yes. Well, that sounds fair enough. That's all there is. I'll have that drink now, if there'll be enough to last... The window pane came flying in, and the ugly muzzle of a 45 silencer attached stuck through. I yelled so did Andrea. But the gun yelled louder and with more effect. The bullets took Andrea in the side, she looked crazily, then folded in her father's arms. He began to mumble her name and cry. I jumped to the window. Pulling away was a black Buick sedan with driver unidentifiable. So were the license plates. They were covered tightly with a cloth. There was a pro job from beginning to end, and a clean getaway. Well, Andrea was still alive, but not by much. I turned up a phone in the lobby. One nickel got me at the emergency hospital, the other brought me homicide. When I got back to the room, Andrea was still lying there, but she was alone. Amando Rios, her father, had gone. And I thought I knew why. Revenge, huh? Exactly, Lieutenant. I think Rios knows who shot his daughter, because I think the bullets were meant for him, and she got him by mistake. I think, therefore, that Rios has got revenge on his mind. Now, let's you have Rios picked up before he does something he can't get out of. Yeah, I'll make a note of that. Also, make a note as follows. I, Lieutenant Kelsey, will check the Mexican consulate for background on Rios, because I, Lieutenant Kelsey, believe Rios is a Mexican national. Not so fast. Furthermore, I, Lieutenant Kelsey, will make a close check of all incoming police calls for the rest of the night, because something is going to happen for which Rios wanted an alibi. When I find out what same is, I will graciously inform Sam Spade. Uh, Sam, how do you spell graciously? I went to the offices of several Mexican-language newspapers, told them the story, and asked them to give a place of prominence to the fact that Andrea was alive, asking Amando Rios to go directly to the nearest police station and wait until contacted. I then went to the Maritime Service and queried about the Santa Susana. I was told it was a sport-fishing vessel owned by its captain, J. Mordigan, with offers in the ocean building on the Embarcadero. The nameplate on the Titian-haired secretary's desk said Janice O'Dell. Yes? Could I help you, please? I think so. Is this the office of the Santa Susana? Oh, you're planning a fishing trip. Well, then you've come to the right place. Santa Susana has excellent accommodations, is thoroughly outfitted for an extended cruise in the Bay of California, whereas you know exist some of the greatest fishing waters in the world. And if it's the same thing you miss, I'll do my fishing here. My name is Spade. I'm a private detective. I am trying to locate an Armando Rios. Rios? I said something? You know him? He's got a birth on the Santa Susana. Well, he has... at least he had. What's he done, Mr. Spade? Well, that's what he will do that bothers me. You say he had a birth. Would you explain, please? I... just a moment, Mr. Spade. Captain Mordigan. There's a private detective out here asking about Armando Rios. Rios? Well, send him in, Janice. Come on, move lively. In here, Mr. Spade. Thank you. My name is Mordigan. Captain Mordigan. I skip to the Santa Susana, the finest sport fishing vessel ever to touch salt water. Everybody's got a commercial. Miss Odell says you're asking about Rios. I am. I'm trying to locate. And so am I. I've got steam up and a dozen people waiting. Rios knows those Mexican fishing waters like no one I've met. And where is he? Jump ship, if you ask me. Scampering around San Francisco or dead drunk in some infamous den from that cactus poison he drinks. If the storm's over, Captain, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Where does Rios' room when he's in San Francisco? He stays right on the ship. Did you know he had a daughter? No. And you don't have any idea, I suppose, why Rios jumped ship? It's a woman. That's my guess. It's always a woman. But that is just a guess. All right, Captain, I'll make a small-sized deal with you. If I find Rios, I'll notify you. If you find him first, notify me. I'll leave you my card. Mordigan agreed and I left, pausing only long enough in the front office to give Janice Odell my phone number in case she saw Rios. She gave me her phone number and it was a fair exchange. 20 minutes later, Lieutenant, I was meeting with Carlos Solcido of the Mexican Council's office. A wire he had sent to Mexico City had brought results. So, Mr. Spade, you have not yet found Amanda Rios, but are still desirous of preventing him from consummating his revenge? I fear perhaps you are too late. What information have you got, Mr. Solcido? First, Amanda Rios was arrested in the Mexican state of Sinaloa for the growing of the Red Amapola. You are aware of what that is? Amapola means poppy from the song of the same name. Exactly. The Red Poppy grown for the production of narcotics. The arrest occurred on August 19th, 1946. Rios served three years in the penitentiary as a result, convicted mainly on the testimony of Ernesto Sabado, who Rios claimed, as you say, framed him. Now, look at this. An inquiry from the office of the district attorney of Marine County, California, requesting information about a Mexican national whose dead body was discovered two hours ago, washed ashore at Point Bonito, a Mexican national whose name is... Ernesto Sabado. Precisely. Yeah. And you think perhaps Rios killed Sabado? A distinct possibility, Mr. Spade, since he had motive. Well, that's exactly why I don't think he did it. Rios knew Sabado was going to be killed sometime tonight. That's the reason Andrea hired me, so her father's whereabouts could be accounted for and so he could not be accused. Now, Mr. Salsito, I don't think Rios killed Sabado. Well, I hope you are right. For his sake and for his daughters, who we both hope will get well. The one who killed Sabado is probably the same one who drives a black Buick sedan who took those pot shots at Rios and caught Andrea instead. The same one who Rios has now got a vendetta against. However you say it, it's a sucker's play, but how do you stop him if you can't find him? Thank you, Mr. Salsito. I must admit, Mr. Spade, I do not fully understand your concern over Rios. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure of it myself, but he got a rotten shuffle. I got a night's pay, so I might as well work for it besides a... Well, I'll let you know what develops. The next four hours, dear Lieutenant, were spent in questioning the following. A, two members of the crew of the Santa Susana. B, assorted residents of La Casa Asu. C, Inspector Gruber of the Marin County DA's office assigned a Sabado case. Some total of information garnered concerning the whereabouts of Armando Rios and or the identity of the gunman he was after. Zero. I was tired, I was depressed, I had a headache. Five minutes to eleven, a coin of mine dropped into a pay phone and a booth by a gas station closed for the night. The intention was to find out if you had turned up anything and to ask how Andrea was, but you never got to hear my honeyed voice. Hang it up, Spade. It was a voice that wasn't familiar. The 45 with silence are affixed, however, was. It didn't take me long to start perspiring. Leave the nickel, Spade, you won't need it. Good evening, I've been wondering about you. I'll bet you have. You're sort of a novelty, you know, the only myopic gunman I've ever met. What's that mean? You're nearsighted. You're not the wrong person back at La Casa Asu. Boss will have to send you out again for real. I don't like you, Spade. I don't know you, but I don't like you anyway. Guess I'll kill you, so I'll never have to take a chance of knowing it. Now, come on, step out, gumshoe. He urged me out of the phone booth, up the street a few paces to the head of an alley with a blind end. There he parked himself in a fire plug. I wished him all sorts of bad luck and he told me to start walking into the alley. Mine was small choice, but as I moved away from the gunzle toward the alley's end, my eyes searched for means of escape. All right, Spade. That's far enough. Now I'm gonna pick your eyes out. Turn around. I stood frozen for a moment, then spun and looked. The gunzle had pitched onto the sidewalk, but the 45 was still in his hand. I moved up to him slowly with a maximum of caution and took a closer look. He was as dead as he could get. A knife in his back had done the job. That's when I looked up the street and saw a figure in fast retreat. It wore a black sweatshirt, pants to match in a dirty white sailor cap. It looked very much like the venganza of Amando Rios was accomplished. You arrived at the scene of the crime, Lieutenant, where you took over in your own masterly way. By the adroit maneuver of looking into the dead man's wallet, you uncovered the fact that he was a Los Angeles import named Max Rapper. You then examined the knife in his back and discovered, as I had previously, the initials A-R for Amando Rios cut into the handle. That plus the fact that I and other witness had seen Amando Rios flee the scene, made it open and shut. Rios was now wanted for murder. When we got to your office, a message had been received by Sergeant Paul House from Dr. Pennington of General Hospital. It said, one, Andrea Rios was going to live. Two, she wanted to see Sam Spade. Was it all right? You had no objection, but I had a problem. What to say to her? Could I say it was nice? She was going to get well and, oh, by the way, your father just killed Max Rapper and the state will do likewise to him or what? My mind still hadn't lived on anything it liked when Pennington walked me down the hospital corridor toward her room. She's a lucky girl, Mr. Spade. Could have gone the other way. Yeah, would have been unlucky. Oh, wait outside. Don't stay too long. The jet black of her hair gave contrast of the whiteness of the room. Her face had lost much of its color, but none of the anxiety had gone out of her eyes. We talked chit-chat for a while. It was easy to see. She had a question she wanted to ask, but had trouble getting it out. Finally it came. Mr. Spade, have you heard... I mean, is there any news of the death of a man called Ernesto Savaro? Yes, the police found his body washed ashore some hours ago. My father is not killing him. No, he's clear on that. I can testify. Oh, that is what I was worrying about. Now, Mr. Spade, I can tell you what you do not know about my father and Ernesto Savaro. I already know. Carlos Salcedo, the Mexican consul, told me. The red amapolo? Yeah. Oh, it was an unfortunate affair for a great many people, Mr. Spade. Buyers from the United States came to Sinaloa. With money, the peasants were lured into growing the poppy. Many knew no better. Many did not know what it was for. They knew simply to grow the red flower, brought more money than to grow food. When the police came, they suffered. The buyers were nowhere to be found. Anyway, it's all right now. My father did not kill Ernesto Savaro. No, Lieutenant, she did not learn about Max Rapper's killing for me. Now that her father was now a fugitive wanted for murder. I also did not ask her some questions I could have asked. Like, how did she know Zabata was going to be killed? Did Rapper do it? And why? Somehow, it did not matter. It had turned sour all the way down the line. And besides, Zabata was Inspector Gruber's problem, not mine. Twenty minutes later, I walked into my apartment, uncorked a live one and started at the top. Four fingers down, the phone began to ring, but I didn't pay any attention. The sky was just beginning to light up with morning, and I remember saying to myself, I was still technically on the Rio's case, but actually, there was no case to be on. When I couldn't stand the phone rings any longer, I looked at the receiver off the hook. Sam? Sam? Hello? Sam, this is Janice Adele. I just saw Rios. Well, uh... He's going to kill Captain Mortigan. Mortigan? Why Mortigan? He went to the Santa Susana after him. Pier 32. Rios is wild. Stop him, Sam. Why call me? Call a cop. Hello? Hello? Twelve minutes later, I was moving through the early fog of the waterfront looking for the Santa Susana. Black letters and a bobbing white bow led me to it, but no signs of life came from aboard ship. A quick tour had me believing it was deserted and that either Rios had caught up with Mortigan someplace else for what reason I didn't know but could guess, or that Janice had given me wrong information. Moments later, however, in the boiler room, it was clear she hadn't. The furnace was open, coals were spread on the floor, and so was a dead Captain Mortigan. Slouched in a chair with his eyes closed and the days was a one-out of Mando Rios. He should have been. He'd had a busy night. Rios? Se muereo. Ah, wake up, Rios. Se muereo. El capitán se muereo, señor Spanish. In any language, he's dead, if that's what you mean. You couldn't be any clearer. Es el hombre. Es su culpa que Andrea fue tirado. Ahora está muerto y no he obtenido la venganza. Venganza, too much venganza. You fixed it fine. Andrea's going to feel swell about it. Oh, what's the use? Come on, Rios. Hello. Hello. What's down there? Kelsey? Ah. What are you doing here? Got a call from a girl named Belle or something. Odell. Oh, yeah, yeah. Is this Rios? What have you got to say for yourself? You ready to sign a statement? He doesn't understand you, Kelsey. Oh, dummying up, huh? He doesn't speak English. Well, he won't get off that easily. We'll sweat it out of him. No lo hice. No lo matéo, capitán. Yeah? That's what they all say. Well, look at this. He's carrying a gun. Gun? Why would he use a knife if he had a gun? Don't ask me. I don't speak Spanish. There was all this coal doing on the floor. It's messy. Looks bad in photographs. Yeah, well, wait a minute. Lieutenant, you've done it again. I picked up a lump of the coal. There was a small hole bored into the center. Examination of others revealed the same thing. Curious, you'd say? Not so when you start thinking about one, the red armapola, two, the fact that Zabato's killing still remain unexplained, and three, and bingo, narcotic smuggling. A phone book gave me an address on Jackson and a wrap on a door got me a quick reply. Oh, Sam. Good morning, Janice. I didn't wake you up, did I? Well... If so, you must sleep in your clothes, and that suitcase on the bed must make it kind of cramped. What are you doing here, Sam? Uh-huh. Heavy, all packed. Is this going on a little vacation for a few days? Where to? Well, I... About a plane ticket on the dresser? Hmm, Las Vegas. Hot there this time of the year. Of course, it's hot here, too, for some of us. What do you want? I want you to open your suitcase. I won't do it. Then I will. Sam, don't do it. Ah. Well, what's this, Janice? No, I've already guessed. How much worth? Zabato was killed by a rapper on Captain Mortigan's orders because he knew this was coming in on the Santa Susanna and probably wanted a cut to keep his mouth shut. Rapper and Mortigan got theirs, not by Rios, but by you. So you could fall out of this. Poor old Rios, old and wanted. He might have muffed his revenge, so you took no chances. Did them in yourself with Rios, a nice, fat, convenient pigeon. Sam. But the police are gonna find it harder and harder to get a case against Rios, and easier and easier to get one against you. These narcotics in your possession will go a long way. Sam, listen to me. Just as long as I've got a gun in my hand, I'll listen to you, baby. There's over $100,000 worth here. And I know where to unload it. Mm-hmm. And what's in it for me? Half. And something else. Yeah? Me. Uh-huh. That would seem to be worth considering, wouldn't it? Sam, a chance to make something out of yourself and rub around for a few lousy bucks all your life? Gonna turn me over to the cops? Not just any old cop, Janice. I want something befitting your character. I'm going to turn you over to Lieutenant Kelsey. And that, Lieutenant, brings you up to date. Uh, period. End of report. Awful girl. We'll talk about it later, F. Later, later. Go type it up. Can we talk about it now? We can. How could that girl have thought for one single moment she could turn a man like you into her accomplice? Very poor judgment. To sell dope yet? Yes. Do I look the type? I should say not. You're upstanding in clean cuts. Well, thank you. Maybe she was nearsighted, too. Anyway, I'm glad it's over and that a happy ending. Well, I'm glad if you're glad. Now, rush that over to Kelsey so he can look good in the eyes of the commissioner. Then phone Mr. Salsito and tell him the Lieutenant's got all the facts. And one thing more. Yes, Sam. I have the floor sent a bouquet of flowers to Andrea at the hospital. Oh, Sam, that's very nice of you. Think so? One thing's still more. Close your eyes and have the floor send a bouquet of flowers to you, too. Sam! Easy, Ed. How do you know it's not coming out of your salary? That's true, too. Good night, Sam. Good night, sweetheart.