Long ago, I traveled to Norway and stayed in a hotel in Oslo. Being in a place so different from home, with its crisp air and serene surroundings, I found myself reflecting on one of my long-time favorites—Humphrey Bogart. Bogart, with his iconic portrayal of the hard-boiled detective Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon, has always been a source of fascination for me. Created by Dashiell Hammett, Sam Spade's character embodied sharp wit, toughness, and a complex moral code that left a lasting impression on cinema.
This trip to Oslo, combined with my admiration for Bogart and his unforgettable roles, stirred something within me. It sparked the urge to write a story—one that blends the mystique of distant lands, the intrigue of a noir detective, and the timeless charisma of Humphrey Bogart.
How did I end up here, half-buried in the snow-covered wilderness of Norway? As the sled took me back to the nearest town, I tried to piece it all together.
Just days earlier, Sam Spade and I were relaxing in our hotel room in Oslo, savoring the success of our last adventure—the Maltese Falcon. Sam, looking every bit the Humphrey Bogart figure he was, leaned back in his chair, sipping a glass of whiskey with that familiar smirk on his face. I had just arrived from Kolkata to join him on a new case that promised to be as dangerous as it was intriguing.
We had been hired to track down a stolen Van Gogh painting, the prized possession of a Monte Carlo drug lord. Art, especially something as valuable as a Van Gogh, was the perfect way to launder and stash ill-gotten gains.
The money trail was untraceable, the transactions hidden in the murky depths of the dark web. The drug lord’s vault was supposedly impenetrable, buried deep within his lavish estate, protected by state-of-the-art security. But someone had pulled off the impossible. The thief drilled a tunnel from a neighboring building into the vault, bypassing the coded locks with ease and making off with the painting.
The job was a risky one, but when Sam Spade called, I couldn't resist the allure of another adventure. It wasn’t long before we got a tip-off that the thief was hiding out in Norway, operating from an igloo in the far north, beyond Tromsø.
Our anonymous client had reached out to Sam through the internet, transferring a hefty sum in cryptocurrency to his New York account as payment. The job was on.
Sam and I planned to head out together, but as luck would have it, another lead came up, and Sam had to follow it, leaving me to scout the igloo on my own. I left our Oslo base early that morning, equipped with a satellite phone to keep in touch with Sam and Soumya, my tech-savvy contact in Kolkata. Soumya had been tracking the thief’s movements through his extensive network on the dark web and had sent me the coordinates of the thief’s hideout.
I rented a sled in Tromsø, the last major outpost before the vast wilderness of northern Norway took over. It was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that cuts through even the thickest layers, but the excitement of the chase kept me warm as I headed out into the desolate white landscape. As I neared the coordinates Soumya had sent, my instincts prickled. Something wasn’t right. Before I knew it, a group of local toughs, hired muscle by the looks of them, was hot on my trail. They attacked, and despite my best efforts to fend them off, I was overwhelmed. A blow to the head sent me sprawling into the snow, and everything went black.
That’s how I ended up here, rescued by a Saint Bernard, on the verge of losing everything—the painting, the mission, and maybe even my life.
But the brandy had worked its magic, and by the time we reached the small town of Alta, I was ready to get back into action. The locals, seeing my battered state, offered me shelter, but I declined. I had a job to finish. I quickly contacted Sam.
"Sam, it’s me. They found me. I barely made it out, but I know where the painting is.
The thief is holed up in an igloo near the coordinates Soumya sent."
Sam’s voice crackled over the line, urgent and clear. "Stay put. I’m coming to you."
It wasn’t long before Sam arrived, looking every bit the iconic detective he was. He wasted no time, handing me a spare coat and another flask, this time filled with strong coffee. "Let’s finish this," he said, his voice carrying the gravitas of a man who had seen it all and lived to tell the tale.
We rented snowmobiles in Alta, opting for speed over the sled this time. The snow was relentless, but the adrenaline pumping through our veins kept us going. We tore through the frozen landscape, the engines roaring against the howling wind. It wasn’t long before the cluster of igloos came into view, their rounded shapes barely distinguishable against the snowy backdrop.
We approached the igloo cautiously, Sam’s years of experience guiding every step. As we circled around, I spotted tracks leading away from the igloo, fresh and hurried. The thief knew we were coming. We dismounted and followed the tracks to a smaller, more isolated igloo at the edge of the cluster. This was it.
Sam signaled for me to cover him as he approached the entrance. With a swift motion, he pulled out his Colt M1911, a relic from his earlier days, and kicked open the door. The inside was dimly lit, the flicker of a single oil lamp casting eerie shadows on the walls. The thief, a wiry man with a face twisted in fear and desperation, was frantically packing supplies, clearly ready to bolt at any moment. But it was the Van Gogh painting, leaning against the far wall, that caught my eye.
"Hold it right there!" Sam’s voice boomed, his gun trained on the thief.
The thief froze, his eyes darting between us and the painting. For a split second, it seemed he might comply, but then he made a desperate dash for the back of the igloo, where a hidden tunnel led to the open snowfields. Sam fired a shot, grazing the thief's leg and sending him crashing to the ground, screaming in pain.
I rushed forward, securing the painting while Sam kept his gun on the thief. The man was whimpering now, the fight drained out of him.
"We got what we came for," Sam said, his voice calm and measured. "Let’s get out of here before his friends catch up."
We tied the thief up and left him for the local authorities to deal with. The painting, now safely in our hands, was wrapped securely and strapped to the back of Sam’s snowmobile. We rode back to Alta in silence, the satisfaction of a job well done keeping us warm against the biting cold.
As we reached the outskirts of the town, Sam looked over at me with that familiar, lopsided grin. "You always did have a knack for getting into trouble."
I laughed, feeling the tension of the past few days finally start to lift. "And you always show up just in time to get me out of it."
We returned to Oslo the next day, the Van Gogh painting safely in tow, ready to be returned to its rightful owner—or as rightful as a Monte Carlo drug lord could be. As we sat in our hotel room, nursing glasses of whiskey and reflecting on our latest adventure, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Another case closed, another story added to the growing legend of Sam Spade.
"Here’s to the next one," Sam said, raising his glass. I clinked mine against his, knowing that wherever the next adventure took us, we’d be ready.
And maybe next time, I’d bring Babulal along.
