Tell her I'll see her—uh—some time. . . .
Yes, but don't tie me up to anything. . . .
That's the stuff.
You're an angel.
'Bye."
Spade's tinny alarm-clock said three-forty when he turned on the light in the suspended bowl again.
He dropped his hat and overcoat on the bed and went into his kitchen, returning to the bedroom with a wineglass and a tall bottle of Bacardi.
He poured a drink and drank it standing.
He put bottle and glass on the table, sat on the side of the bed facing them, and rolled a cigarette.
He had drunk his third glass of Bacardi and was lighting his fifth cigarette when the street-door-bell rang.
The hands of the alarm-clock registered four-thirty.
Spade sighed, rose from the bed, and went to the telephone-box beside his bathroom door.
He pressed the button that released the streetdoor-lock.
He muttered,
"Damn her," and stood scowling at the black telephone-box, breathing irregularly while a dull flush grew in his cheeks.
The grating and rattling of the elevator-door opening and closing came from the corridor.
Spade sighed again and moved towards the corridor-door.
Soft heavy footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor outside, the footsteps of two men.
Spade's face brightened.
His eyes were no longer harassed.
He opened the door quickly.
"Hello, Tom," he said to the barrel-bellied tall detective with whom he had talked in Burritt Street, and,
"Hello, Lieutenant," to the man beside Tom.
"Come in."
They nodded together, neither saying anything, and came in.
Spade shut the door and ushered them into his bedroom.
Toni sat on an end of the sofa by the windows.
The Lieutenant sat on a chair beside the table.
The Lieutenant was a compactly built man with a round head under short-cut grizzled hair and a square face behind a short-cut grizzled mustache. A five-dollar gold-piece was pinned to his necktie and there was a small elaborate diamond-set secret-society-emblem on his lapel.
Spade brought two wine-glasses in from the kitchen, filled them and his own with Bacardi, gave one to each of his visitors, and sat down with his on the side of the bed.
His face was placid and uncurious.
He raised his glass, and said,
"Success to crime," and drank it down.
Tom emptied his glass, set it on the floor beside his feet, and wiped his mouth with a muddy forefinger.
He stared at the foot of the bed as if trying to remember something of which it vaguely reminded him.
The Lieutenant looked at his glass for a dozen seconds, took a very small sip of its contents, and put the glass on the table at his elbow.
He examined the room with hard deliberate eyes, and then looked at Tom.
Tom moved uncomfortably on the sofa and, not looking up, asked:
"Did you break the news to Miles's wife, Sam?"
Spade said:
"Uh-huh."
"How'd she take it?"
Spade shook his head.
"I don't know anything about women."
Tom said softly:
"The hell you don't."
The Lieutenant put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.
His greenish eyes were fixed on Spade in a peculiarly rigid stare, as if their focus were a matter of mechanics, to be changed only by pulling a lever or pressing a button.
"What kind of gun do you carry?" he asked.
"None.